ARY 

.iTY  OP 

CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DiSGO 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 


Booth  Tarkington 


Capy right  by  Mtirceau 


THE    GENTLEMAN 
FROM     INDIANA 


BY 
BOOTH  TARKINGTON 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,   1902,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 


TO 

JOHN  CLEVE  GREEN 


CONTENTS 

CSAPTEB  PAOE 

I.  THE  YOUNG  MAN  WHO  CAME  TO  STAY  .       3 
II.  THE  STRANGE  LADY 21 

III.  LONESOMENESS 43 

IV.  THE  WALRUS  AND  THE  CARPENTER        .     59 
V.  AT  THE  PASTURE  BARS:  ELDER-BUSHES 

MAY  HAVE  STINGS 83 

VI.  JUNE 96 

VII.  MORNING:  "SOME  IN  RAGS  AND  SOME  IN 

TAGS  AND  SOME  IN  VELVET  GOWNS".    115 
VIII.  GLAD  AFTERNOON:  THE  GIRL  BY  THE 

BLUE  TENT-POLE 151 

IX.  NIGHT:  IT  Is  BAD  LUCK  TO  SING  BE 
FORE  BREAKFAST 177 

X.  THE  COURT-HOUSE  BELL         .       .        .211 

XI.  JOHN  BROWN'S  BODY 242 

XII.  JERRY  THE  TELLER 260 

XIII.  JAMES  FISBEE 291 

XIV.  A  RESCUE 319 

XV.  NETTLES  .  343 


CONTENTS 


PAQH 


XVI.  PRETTY  MARQUISE   .  ...  375 

XVII.  HELEN'S  TOAST 404 

XVIII.  THE  TREACHERY  OF  H.  FISBEE     .        .  432 

XIX.  THE  GREAT  HARKLERS  COMES  HOME  .  453 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Booth  Tarkington Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"I  always  thought  you  were  tall"      ...     94 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   YOUNG   MAN   WHO   CAME   TO   STAY 

THERE  is  a  fertile  stretch  of  flat  lands  in 
Indiana  where  unagrarian  Eastern  travellers, 
glancing  from  car-windows,  shudder  and 
return  their  eyes  to  interior  upholstery,  preferring 
even  the  swaying  caparisons  of  a  Pullman  to  the 
monotony  without.  The  landscape  lies  intermin 
ably  level:  bleak  in  winter,  a  desolate  plain  of  mud 
and  snow;  hot  and  dusty  in  summer,  in  its  flat  lone- 
someness,  miles  on  miles  with  not  one  cool  hill 
slope  away  from  the  sun.  The  persistent  tourist 
who  seeks  for  signs  of  man  in  this  sad  expanse  per 
ceives  a  reckless  amount  of  rail  fence;  at  intervals 
a  large  barn;  and,  here  and  there,  man  himself, 
incurious,  patient,  slow,  looking  up  from  the  fields 
apathetically  as  the  Limited  flies  by.  Widely 
separated  from  each  other  are  small  frame  railway 
stations — sometimes  with  no  other  building  in  sight, 
which  indicates  that  somewhere  behind  the  adjacent 


4       THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

woods  a  few  shanties  and  thin  cottages  are  grouped 
about  a  couple  of  brick  stores. 

On  the  station  platforms  there  are  always  two  or 
three  wooden  packing-boxes,  apparently  marked  for 
travel,  but  they  are  sacred  from  disturbance  and 
remain  on  the  platform  forever;  possibly  the  right 
train  never  comes  along.  They  serve  to  enthrone 
a  few  station  loafers,  who  look  out  from  under  their 
hat-brims  at  the  faces  in  the  car-windows  with  the 
languid  scorn  a  permanent  fixture  always  has  for 
a  transient,  and  the  pity  an  American  feels  for  a 
fellow-being  who  does  not  live  in  his  town.  Now 
and  then  the  train  passes  a  town  built  scatteringly 
about  a  court-house,  with  a  mill  or  two  humming 
near  the  tracks.  This  is  a  county-seat,  and  the 
inhabitants  and  the  local  papers  refer  to  it  confi 
dently  as  "our  city."  The  heart  of  the  flat  lands  is 
a  central  area  called  Carlow  County,  and  the  county- 
seat  of  Carlow  is  a  town  unhappily  named  in  honor 
of  its  first  settler, William  Platt,  who  christened  it  with 
his  blood.  Natives  of  this  place  have  sometimes  re 
marked,  easily,that  their  city  had  a  population  of  from 
five  to  six  thousand  souls.  It  is  easy  to  forgive  them 
for  such  statements;  civic  pride  is  a  virtue. 

The  social  and  business  energy  of  Plattville  con- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA       5 

centrates  on  the  Square.  Here,  in  summer-time, 
the  gentlemen  are  wont  to  lounge  from  store  to  store 
in  their  shirt  sleeves;  and  here  stood  the  old,  red 
brick  court-house,  loosely  fenced  in  a  shady  grove 
of  maple  and  elm — "slipp'ry  ellum" — called  the 
"Court-House  Yard."  When  the  sun  grew  too  hot 
for  the  dry-goods  box  whittlers  in  front  of  the 
stores  around  the  Square  and  the  occupants  of  the 
chairs  in  front  of  the  Palace  Hotel  on  the  corner, 
they  would  go  across  and  drape  themselves  over  the 
court-house  fence,  under  the  trees,  and  leisurely 
carve  their  initials  on  the  top  board.  The  farmers 
hitched  their  teams  to  the  fence,  for  there  were 
usually  loafers  energetic  enough  to  shout  "Whoa!" 
if  the  flies  worried  the  horses  beyond  patience.  In 
the  yard,  amongst  the  weeds  and  tall,  unkept  grass, 
chickens  foraged  all  day  long;  the  fence  was  so  low 
that  the  most  matronly  hen  flew  over  with  pro 
priety;  and  there  were  gaps  that  accommodated  the 
passage  of  itinerant  pigs.  Most  of  the  latter,  how 
ever,  preferred  the  cool  wallows  of  the  less  important 
street  corners.  Here  and  there  a  big  dog  lay  asleep 
in  the  middle  of  the  road,  knowing  well  that  the 
easy-going  Samaritan,  in  his  case,  would  pass  by 
on  the  other  side. 


6       THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Only  one  street  attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  name 
• — Main  Street,  which  formed  the  north  side  of  the 
Square.  In  Carlow  County,  descriptive  location  is 
usually  accomplished  by  designating  the  adjacent, 
as,  "Up  at  Bardlocks',"  "Down  by  Schofields'," 
"Right  where  Hibbards  live,"  "Acrost  from  Sol. 
Tibbs's,"  or,  "Other  side  of  Jones's  field."  In 
winter,  Main  Street  was  a  series  of  frozen  gorges 
and  hummocks;  in  fall  and  spring,  a  river  of  mud; 
in  summer,  a  continuing  dust  heap;  it  was  the  best 
street  in  Plattville. 

The  people  lived  happily;  and,  while  the  world 
whirled  on  outside,  they  were  content  with  their 
own.  It  would  have  moved  their  surprise  as  much 
as  their  indignation  to  hear  themselves  spoken  of  as 
a  "secluded  community";  for  they  sat  up  all  night 
to  hear  the  vote  of  New  York,  every  campaign. 
Once  when  the  President  visited  Rouen,  seventy 
miles  away,  there  were  only  few  bankrupts  (and 
not  a  baby  amongst  them)  left  in  the  deserted  homes 
of  Carlow  County.  Everybody  had  adventures; 
almost  everybody  saw  the  great  man;  and  every 
body  was  glad  to  get  back  home  again.  It  was  the 
longest  journey  some  of  them  ever  set  upon,  and 
these,  elated  as  they  were  over  their  travels,  deter- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA       7 

mined  to  think  twice  ere  they  went  that  far  from 
home  another  time. 

On  Saturdays,  the  farmers  enlivened  the  commer 
cial  atmosphere  of  Plattville;  and  Miss  Tibbs,  the 
postmaster's  sister  and  clerk,  used  to  make  a  point 
of  walking  up  and  down  Main  Street  as  often  as 
possible,  to  get  a  thrill  in  the  realization  of  some 
poetical  expressions  that  haunted  her  pleasingly; 
phrases  she  had  employed  frequently  in  her  poems 
for  the  "Carlo w  County  Herald."  When  thirty  or 
forty  country  people  were  scattered  along  the  side 
walks  in  front  of  the  stores  on  Main  Street,  she 
would  walk  at  nicely  calculated  angles  to  the  differ 
ent  groups  so  as  to  leave  as  few  gaps  as  possible 
between  the  figures,  making  them  appear  as  near  a 
solid  phalanx  as  she  could.  Then  she  would  mur 
mur  to  herself,  with  the  accent  of  soulful  revel, 
"The  thronged  city  streets,"  and,  "Within  the 
thronged  city,"  or,  "Where  the  thronging  crowds 
were  swarming  and  the  great  cathedral  rose." 
Although  she  had  never  been  beyond  Carlow  and 
the  bordering  counties  in  her  life,  all  her  poems 
were  of  city  streets  and  bustling  multitudes.  She 
was  one  of  those  who  had  been  unable  to  join  the 
excursion  to  Rouen  when  the  President  was  there; 


8       THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

but  she  had  listened  avidly  to  her  friends'  descrip 
tions  of  the  crowds.  Before  that  time  her  muse  had 
been  sylvan,  speaking  of  "Flow'rs  of  May,"  and 
hinting  at  thoughts  that  o'ercame  her  when  she 
roved  the  woodlands  thro';  but  now  the  inspiration 
was  become  decidedly  municipal  and  urban,  evi 
dently  reluctant  to  depart  beyond  the  retail  portions 
of  a  metropolis.  Her  verses  beginning,  "O,  my 
native  city,  bride  of  Hibbard's  winding  stream," 
— Hibbard's  Creek  runs  west  of  Plattville,  except  in 
time  of  drought — "When  thy  myriad  lights  are 
shining,  and  thy  faces,  like  a  dream,  Go  flitting  down 
thy  sidewalks  when  their  daily  toil  is  done,"  were 
pronounced,  at  the  time  of  their  publication,  the 
best  poem  that  had  ever  appeared  in  the  "Herald." 
This  unlucky  newspaper  was  a  thorn  in  the  side 
of  every  patriot  of  Carlow  County.  It  was  a  poor 
paper;  everybody  knew  it  was  a  poor  paper;  it  was 
so  poor  that  everybody  admitted  it  was  a  poor  paper 
—worse,  the  neighboring  county  of  Amo  possessed 
a  better  paper,  the  "Amo  Gazette."  The  "Carlow 
County  Herald"  was  so  everlastingly  bad  that 
Plattville  people  bent  their  heads  bitterly  and 
admitted  even  to  citizens  of  Amo  that  the  "Gazette" 
\vas  the  better  paper.  The  "Herald"  was  a  weekly, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA       9 

issued  on  Saturday;  sometimes  it  hung  fire  over 
Sunday  and  appeared  Monday  evening.  In  their 
pride,  the  Carlo w  people  supported  the  "Herald" 
loyally  and  long;  but  finally  subscriptions  began  to 
fall  off  and  the  "Gazette"  gained  them.  It  came 
to  pass  that  the  "Herald"  missed  fire  altogether 
for  several  weeks;  then  it  came  out  feebly,  two  small 
advertisements  occupying  the  whole  of  the  fourth 
page.  It  was  breathing  its  last.  The  editor  was  a 
clay-colored  gentleman  with  a  goatee,  whose  one 
surreptitious  eye  betokened  both  indolence  of  dis 
position  and  a  certain  furtive  shrewdness.  He  col 
lected  all  the  outstanding  subscriptions  he  could, 
on  the  morning  of  the  issue  just  mentioned,  and, 
thoughtfully  neglecting  several  items  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ledger,  departed  from  Plattville  forever. 
The  same  afternoon  a  young  man  from  the  East 
alighted  on  the  platform  of  the  railway  station,  north 
of  the  town,  and,  entering  the  rickety  omnibus 
that  lingered  there,  seeking  whom  it  might  rattle 
to  deafness,  demanded  to  be  driven  to  the  Herald 
Building.  It  did  not  strike  the  driver  that  the 
newcomer  was  precisely  a  gay  young  man  when 
he  climbed  into  the  omnibus;  but,  an  hour  later, 
as  he  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  edifice  he  had 


10     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

indicated  as  his  destination,  depression  seemed  to 
have  settled  into  the  marrow  of  his  bones. 

Plattville  was  instantly  alert  to  the  stranger's 
presence,  and  interesting  conjectures  were  hazarded 
all  day  long  at  the  back  door  of  Martin's  Dry-Goods 
Emporium,  where  all  the  clerks  from  the  stores 
around  the  Square  came  to  play  checkers  or  look 
on  at  the  game.  (This  was  the  club  during  the  day; 
in  the  evening  the  club  and  the  game  removed  to 
the  drug,  book,  and  wall-paper  store  on  the  corner.) 
At  supper,  the  new  arrival  and  his  probable  pur 
poses  were  discussed  over  every  table  in  the  town. 
Upon  inquiry,  he  had  informed  Judd  Bennett,  the 
driver  of  the  omnibus,  that  he  had  come  to  stay. 
Naturally,  such  a  declaration  caused  a  sensation, 
as  people  did  not  come  to  Plattville  to  live,  except 
through  the  inadvertency  of  being  born  there.  In 
addition,  the  young  man's  appearance  and  attire 
were  reported  to  be  extraordinary.  Many  of  the 
curious,  among  them  most  of  the  marriageable 
females  of  the  place,  took  occasion  to  pass  and  repass 
the  sign  of  the  "Carlow  County  Herald"  during  the 
evening. 

Meanwhile,  the  stranger  was  seated  in  the  dingy 
office  upstairs  with  his  head  bowed  low  on  his  arms. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     11 

Twilight  stole  through  the  dirty  window-panes  and 
faded  into  darkness.  Night  filled  the  room.  He 
did  not  move.  The  young  man  from  the  East  had 
bought  the  "Herald"  from  an  agent;  had  bought 
it  without  ever  having  been  within  a  hundred  miles 
of  Plattville.  He  had  vastly  overpaid  for  it.  More 
over,  the  price  he  had  paid  for  it  was  all  the  money 
he  had  in  the  world. 

The  next  morning  he  went  bitterly  to  work.  He 
hired  a  compositor  from  Rouen,  a  young  man 
named  Parker,  who  set  type  all  night  long  and 
helped  him  pursue  advertisements  all  day.  The 
citizens  shook  their  heads  pessimistically.  They  had 
about  given  up  the  idea  that  the  "Herald"  could 
ever  amount  to  anything,  and  they  betrayed  an 
innocent,  but  caustic,  doubt  of  ability  in  any 
stranger,. 

One  day  the  new  editor  left  a  note  on  his  door, 
"Will  return  in  fifteen  minutes." 

Mr.  Rodney  McCune,  a  politician  from  the  neigh 
boring  county  of  Gaines,  happening  to  be  in  Platt 
ville  on  an  errand  to  his  henchmen,  found  the  note, 
and  wrote  beneath  the  message  the  scathing 
inquiry,  "Why?" 

When  he  discovered  this  addendum,  the  editor 


12     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

smiled  for  the  first  time  since  his  advent,  and 
reported  the  incident  in  his  next  issue,  using  the 
rubric,  "Why  Has  the  'Herald'  Returned  to  Life?" 
as  a  text  for  a  rousing  editorial  on  "honesty  in 
politics,"  a  subject  of  which  he  already  knew  some 
thing.  The  political  district  to  which  Carlow 
belonged  was  governed  by  a  limited  number  of 
gentlemen  whose  wealth  was  ever  on  the  increase; 
and  "honesty  in  politics"  was  a  startling  concep 
tion  to  the  minds  of  the  passive  and  resigned  voters, 
who  discussed  the  editorial  on  the  street  corners 
and  in  the  stores.  The  next  week  there  was  another 
editorial,  personal  and  local  in  its  application,  and 
thereby  it  became  evident  that  the  new  proprietor 
of  the  "Herald"  was  a  theorist  who  believed,  in 
general,  that  a  politician's  honor  should  not  be 
merely  of  that  middling  healthy  species  known  as 
"honor  amongst  politicians";  and,  in  particular, 
that  Rodney  McCune  should  not  receive  the  nomi 
nation  of  his  party  for  Congress.  Now,  Mr.  McCune 
was  the  undoubted  dictator  of  the  district,  and  his 
followers  laughed  at  the  stranger's  fantastic  onset. 
But  the  editor  was  not  content  with  the  word  of 
print;  he  hired  a  horse  and  rode  about  the  country, 
and  (to  his  own  surprise)  he  proved  to  be  an  adaptable 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     13 

young  man  who  enjoyed  exercise  with  a  pitchfork  to 
the  farmer's  profit  while  the  farmer  talked.  He 
talked  little  himself,  but  after  listening  an  hour 
or  so,  he  would  drop  a  word  from  the  saddle  as  he 
left;  and  then,  by  some  surprising  wizardry,  the 
farmer,  thinking  over  the  interview,  decided  there 
was  some  sense  in  what  that  young  fellow  said,  and 
grew  curious  to  see  what  the  young  fellow  had 
further  to  say  in  the  "Herald." 

Politics  is  the  one  subject  that  goes  to  the  vitals 
of  every  rural  American;  and  a  Hoosier  will  talk 
politics  after  he  is  dead. 

Everybody  read  the  campaign  editorials,  and 
found  them  interesting,  although  there  was  no  one 
who  did  not  perceive  the  utter  absurdity  of  a  young 
stranger's  dropping  into  Carlow  and  involving  him 
self  in  a  party  fight  against  the  boss  of  the  district. 
It  was  entirely  a  party  fight;  for,  by  grace  of  the  last 
gerrymander,  the  nomination  carried  with  it  the 
certainty  of  election.  A  week  before  the  conven 
tion  there  came  a  provincial  earthquake;  the  news 
passed  from  man  to  man  in  awe-struck  whispers — 
McCune  had  withdrawn  his  name,  making  the 
hollo  west  of  excuses  to  his  cohorts.  Nothing  was 
known  of  the  real  reason  for  his  disordered  retreat, 


14     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

beyond  the  fact  that  he  had  been  in  Plattville  on 
the  morning  before  his  withdrawal  and  had  issued 
from  a  visit  to  the  "Herald"  office  in  a  state  of 
palsy.  Mr.  Parker,  the  Rouen  printer,  had  been 
present  at  the  close  of  the  interview;  but  he  held 
his  peace  at  the  command  of  his  employer.  He 
had  been  called  into  the  sanctum,  and  had  found 
McCune,  white  and  shaking,  leaning  on  the  desk. 

"Parker,"  said  the  editor,  exhibiting  a  bundle  of 
papers  he  held  in  his  hand,  "I  want  you  to  witness 
a  verbal  contract  between  Mr.  McCune  and  myself. 
These  papers  are  an  affidavit  and  copies  of  some 
records  of  a  street-car  company  which  obtained  a 
charter  while  Mr.  McCune  was  in  the  State  legisla 
ture.  They  were  sent  to  me  by  a  man  I  do  not 
know,  an  anonymous  friend  of  Mr.  McCune's;  in 
fact,  a  friend  he  seems  to  have  lost.  On  considera 
tion  of  our  not  printing  these  papers,  Mr.  McCune 
agrees  to  retire  from  politics  for  good.  You  under 
stand,  if  he  ever  lifts  his  head  again,  politically, 
we  publish  them,  and  the  courts  will  do  the  rest. 
Now,  in  case  anything  should  happen  to  me 

"Something  will  happen  to  you,  all  right,"  broke 
out  McCune.  "You  can  bank  on  that,  you 
black " 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     15 

"Come,"  the  editor  interrupted,  not  unpleasantly, 
"why  should  there  be  anything  personal  in  all 
this?  I  don't  recognize  you  as  my  private  enemy 
— not  at  all;  and  I  think  you  are  getting  off  rather 
easily;  aren't  you?  You  stay  out  of  politics,  and 
everything  will  be  comfortable.  You  ought  never 
to  have  been  in  it,  you  see.  It's  a  mistake  not 
to  keep  square,  because  in  the  long  run  somebody 
is  sure  to  give  you  away — like  the  fellow  who  sent 
me  these.  You  promise  to  hold  to  a  strictly  private 
life?" 

"You're  a  traitor  to  the  party,"  groaned  the 
other,  "but  you  only  wait " 

The  editor  smiled  sadly.  "Wait  nothing.  Don't 
threaten,  man.  Go  home  to  your  wife.  I'll  give 
you  three  to  one  she'll  be  glad  you  are  out  of  it." 

"I'll  give  you  three  to  one,"  said  McCune,  "that 
the  White  Caps  will  get  you  if  you  stay  in  Carlow. 
You  want  to  look  out  for  yourself,  I  tell  you,  my 
smart  boy!" 

"Good-day,  Mr.  McCune,"  was  the  answer. 
"Let  me  have  your  note  of  withdrawal  before  you 
leave  town  this  afternoon."  The  young  man 
paused  a  moment,  then  extended  his  hand,  as  he 
said:  "Shake  hands,  won't  you?  I — I  haven't 


16     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

meant  to  be  too  hard  on  you.  I  hope  things  will 
seem  easier  and  gayer  to  you  before  long;  and  if 
— if  anything  should  turn  up  that  I  can  do  for  you 
in  a  private  way,  I'll  be  very  glad,  you  know. 
Good-by." 

The  sound  of  the  "Herald's"  victory  went  over 
the  State.  The  paper  came  out  regularly.  The 
townsfolk  bought  it  and  the  farmers  drove  in  for  it. 
Old  subscribers  came  back.  Old  advertisers  re 
newed.  The  "Herald"  began  to  sell  in  Amo,  and 
Gaines  County  people  subscribed.  Carlo w  folk  held 
up  their  heads  when  journalism  was  mentioned. 
Presently  the  "Herald"  announced  a  news  con 
nection  with  Rouen,  and  with  that,  and  the  aid  of 
"patent  insides,"  began  an  era  of  three  issues  a 
week,  appearing  on  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and 
Saturdays.  The  Plattville  Brass  Band  serenaded 
the  editor. 

During  the  second  month  of  the  new  regime  of 
the  "Herald,"  the  working  force  of  the  paper  re 
ceived  an  addition.  One  night  the  editor  found 
some  barroom  loafers  tormenting  a  patriarchal  old 
man  who  had  a  magnificent  head  and  a  grand 
white  beard.  He  had  been  thrown  out  of  a  saloon, 
and  he  was  drunk  with  the  drunkenness  of  three 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     IT 

weeks  steady  pouring.  He  propped  himself  against 
a  wall  and  reproved  his  tormentors  in  Latin.  "I'm 
walking  your  way,  Mr.  Fisbee,"  remarked  the 
journalist,  hooking  his  arm  into  the  old  man's. 
"Suppose  we  leave  our  friends  here  and  go  home?" 
Mr.  Fisbee  was  the  one  inhabitant  of  the  town 
who  had  an  unknown  past;  no  one  knew  more  about 
him  than  that  he  had  been  connected  with  a  uni 
versity  somewhere,  and  had  travelled  in  unheard-of 
countries  before  he  came  to  Plattville.  A  glamour 
of  romance  was  thrown  about  him  by  the  gossips, 
to  whom  he  ever  proved  a  fund  of  delightful  specula 
tion.  There  was  a  dark,  portentous  secret  in  his 
life,  it  was  agreed;  an  opinion  not  too  well  confirmed 
by  the  old  man's  appearance.  His  fine  eyes  had 
a  pathetic  habit  of  wandering  to  the  horizon  in  a 
questioning  fashion  that  had  a  queer  sort  of  hope 
lessness  in  it,  as  if  his  quest  were  one  for  the  Holy 
Grail,  perhaps;  and  his  expression  was  mild,  vague, 
and  sad.  He  had  a  look  of  race  and  blood;  and 
yet,  at  the  first  glance,  one  saw  that  he  was  lost 
in  dreams,  and  one  guessed  that  the  dreams  would 
never  be  of  great  praticability  in  their  application. 
Some  such  impression  of  Fisbee  was  probably  what 
caused  the  editor  of  the  "Herald"  to  nickname  him 


18     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

(in  his  own  mind)  "The  White  Knight,"  and  to 
conceive  a  strong,  if  whimsical,  fancy  for  him. 

Old  Fisbee  had  come  (from  nobody  knew  where) 
to  Plattville  to  teach,  and  had  been  principal  of 
the  High  School  for  ten  years,  instructing  his  pupils 
after  a  peculiar  fashion  of  his  own,  neglecting  the 
ordinary  courses  of  High  School  instruction  to 
lecture  on  archaeology  to  the  dumfounded  scholars; 
growing  year  by  year  more  forgetful  and  absent, 
lost  in  his  few  books  and  his  own  reflections,  until, 
though  undeniably  a  scholar,  he  had  been  dis 
charged  for  incompetency.  He  was  old;  he  had 
no  money  and  no  way  to  make  money;  he  could 
find  nothing  to  do.  The  blow  had  seemed  to  daze 
him  for  a  time;  then  he  began  to  drop  in  at  the 
hotel  bar,  where  Wilkerson,  the  professional  drunk 
ard,  favored  him  with  his  society.  The  old  man 
understood;  he  knew  it  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  He  sold  his  books  in  order  to  continue  his 
credit  at  the  Palace  bar,  and  once  or  twice,  unable 
to  proceed  to  his  own  dwelling,  spent  the  night  in 
a  lumber  yard,  piloted  thither  by  the  hardier  veteran, 
Wilkerson. 

The  morning  after  the  editor  took  him  home, 
Fisbee  appeared  at  the  "Herald"  office  in  a  new  hat 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     19 

and  a  decent  suit  of  black.  He  had  received  his 
salary  in  advance,  his  books  had  been  repurchased, 
and  he  had  become  the  reportorial  staff  of  the 
"Carlow  County  Herald";  also,  he  was  to  write 
various  treatises  for  the  paper.  For  the  first  few 
evenings,  when  he  started  home  from  the  office, 
his  chief  walked  with  him,  chatting  heartily,  until 
they  had  passed  the  Palace  bar.  But  Fisbee's 
redemption  was  complete. 

The  old  man  had  a  daughter.  When  she  came  to 
Plattville,  he  told  her  what  the  editor  of  the 
"Herald"  had  done  for  him. 

The  journalist  kept  steadily  at  his  work;  and, 
as  time  went  on,  the  bitterness  his  predecessor's 
swindle  had  left  him  passed  ajvay.  But  his  lone 
liness  and  a  sense  of  defeat  grew  and  deepened. 
When  the  vistas  of  the  world  had  opened  to  his 
first  youth,  he  had  not  thought  to  spend  his  life 
in  such  a  place  as  Plattville;  but  he  found  himself 
doing  it,  and  it  was  no  great  happiness  to  him  that 
the  congressional  representative  of  the  district,  the 
gentleman  whom  the  "Herald's"  opposition  to  Mc- 
Cune  had  sent  to  Washington,  came  to  depend  on 
his  influence  for  renomination;  nor  did  the  realiza 
tion  that  the  editor  of  the  "Carlow  County  Herald" 


20     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

had  come  to  be  McCune's  successor  as  political 
dictator  produce  a  perceptibly  enlivening  effect  on 
the  young  man.  The  years  drifted  very  slowly,  and 
to  him  it  seemed  they  went  by  while  he  stood  far 
aside  and  could  not  even  see  them  move.  He  did 
not  consider  the  life  he  led  an  exciting  one;  but 
the  other  citizens  of  Carlow  did  when  he  under 
took  a  war  against  the  "White  Caps."  The  natives 
were  much  more  afraid  of  the  "White  Caps"  than 
he  was;  they  knew  more  about  them  and  under 
stood  them  better  than  he  did. 


CHAPTER  H 

THE   STRANGE   LADY 

IT  was  June.     From  the  patent  inner  columns 
of    the    "Carlow    County    Herald"    might    be 
gleaned  the  information  (enlivened  by  cuts  of 
duchesses)  that  the  London  season  had  reached  a 
high  point  of  gaiety;  and  that,  although  the  weather 
had  grown  inauspiciously  warm,  there  was  sufficient 
gossip  for  the  thoughtful.     To  the  rapt  mind  of 
Miss    Selina   Tibbs    came   a    delicious    moment    of 
comparison:  precisely  the  same  conditions  prevailed 
in  Plattville. 

Not  unduly  might  Miss  Selina  lay  this  flattering 
unction  to  her  soul,  and  well  might  the  "Herald" 
declare  that  "Carlow  events  were  crowding  thick 
and  fast."  The  congressional  representative  of  the 
district  was  to  deliver  a  lecture  at  the  court-house; 
a  circus  was  approaching  the  county-seat,  and  its 
glories  would  be  exhibited  "rain  or  shine";  the 
court  had  cleared  up  the  docket  by  sitting  to  un 
seemly  hours  of  the  night,  even  until  ten  o'clock 

21 


22     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

— one  farmer  witness  had  fallen  asleep  while  depos 
ing  that  he  "had  knowed  this  man  Hender  some 
eighteen  year" — and,  as  excitements  come  indeed 
when  they  do  come,  and  it  seldom  rains  but  it 
pours,  the  identical  afternoon  of  the  lecture  a 
strange  lady  descended  from  the  Rouen  Accommo 
dation  and  was  greeted  on  the  platform  by  the 
wealthiest  citizen  of  the  county,  Judge  Briscoe,  and 
his  daughter,  Minnie,  and  (what  stirred  wonder  to 
an  itch  almost  beyond  endurance)  Mr.  Fisbee!  and 
they  then  drove  through  town  on  the  way  to  the 
Briscoe  mansion,  all  four,  apparently,  in  a  flustei 
of  pleasure  and  exhilaration,  the  strange  lady  en 
gaged  in  earnest  conversation  with  Mr.  Fisbee  on 
the  back  seat. 

Judd  Bennett  had  had  the  best  stare  at  her, 
but,  as  he  immediately  fell  into  a  dreamy  and 
absent  state,  little  satisfaction  could  be  got  from 
him,  merely  an  exasperating  statement  that  the 
stranger  seemed  to  have  a  kind  of  new  look  to 
her.  However,  by  means  of  Miss  Mildy  Upton,  a 
domestic  of  the  Briscoe  household,  the  community 
was  given  something  a  little  more  definite.  The 
lady's  name  was  Sherwood;  she  lived  in  Rouen; 
and  she  had  known  Miss  Briscoe  at  the  eastern 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     23 

school  the  latter  had  attended  (to  the  feverish 
agitation  of  Plattville)  three  years  before;  but  Mildy 
confessed  her  inadequacy  in  the  matter  of  Mr. 
Fisbee.  He  had  driven  up  in  the  buckboard  with 
the  others  and  evidently  expected  to  stay  for  supper 
Mr.  Tibbs,  the  postmaster  (it  was  to  the  post- 
office  that  Miss  Upton  brought  her  information) 
suggested,  as  a  possible  explanation,  that  the  lady 
was  so  learned  that  the  Briscoes  had  invited  Fisbee 
on  the  ground  of  his  being  the  only  person  in  Platt 
ville  they  esteemed  wise  enough  to  converse  with 
her;  but  Miss  Tibbs  wrecked  her  brother's  theory 
by  mentioning  the  name  of  Fisbee's  chief. 

"You  see,  Solomon,"  she  sagaciously  observed, 
"if  that  were  true,  they  would  have  invited  him, 
instead  of  Mr.  Fisbee,  and  I  wish  they  had.  He 
isn't  troubled  with  malaria,  and  yet  the  longer  he 
lives  here  the  sallower-looking  and  sadder-looking 
he  gets.  I  think  the  company  of  a  lovely  stranger 
might  be  of  great  cheer  to  his  heart,  and  it  will  be 
interesting  to  witness  the  meeting  between  them. 
It  may  be,"  added  the  poetess,  "that  they  have 
already  met,  on  his  travels  before  he  settled  here. 
It  may  be  that  they  are  old  friends — or  even  more." 

"Then  what,"  returned  her  brother,  "what  is  he 


24     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

doin'  settin'  up  in  his  office  all  afternoon  with  ink 
on  his  forehead,  while  Fisbee  goes  out  ridin'  with 
her  and  stays  for  supper  aiierwerds?" 

Although  the  problem  of  Fisbee's  attendance  re 
mained  a  mere  maze  of  hopeless  speculation,  Mildy 
had  been  present  at  the  opening  of  Miss  Sherwood's 
trunk,  and  here  was  matter  for  the  keen  consider 
ation  of  the  ladies,  at  least.  Thoughtful  conversa 
tions  in  regard  to  hats  and  linings  took  place  across 
fences  and  on  corners  of  the  Square  that  afternoon; 
and  many  gentlemen  wondered  (in  wise  silence) 
why  their  spouses  were  absent-minded  and  brooded 
during  the  evening  meal. 

At  half-past  seven,  the  Hon.  Kedge  Halloway  of 
Amo  delivered  himself  of  his  lecture:  "The  Post  and 
Present.  What  we  may  Glean  from  Them,  and 
Their  Influence  on  the  Future."  At  seven  the  court 
room  was  crowded,  and  Miss  Tibbs,  seated  on  the 
platform  (reserved  for  prominent  citizens),  viewed 
the  expectant  throng  with  rapture.  It  is  possible 
that  she  would  have  confessed  to  witnessing  a  sea 
of  faces,  but  it  is  more  probable  that  she  viewed 
the  expectant  throng.  The  thermometer  stood  at 
eighty-seven  degrees  and  there  was  a  rustle  of  in- 
i?essantly  moving  palm-leaf  fans  as,  row  by  row. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     25 

their  yellow  sides  twinkled  in  the  light  of  eight 
oil  lamps.  The  stouter  ladies  wielded  their  fans 
with  vigor.  There  were  some  very  pretty  faces 
in  Mr.  Halloway's  audience,  but  it  is  a  peculiarity 
of  Plattville  that  most  of  those  females  who  do 
not  incline  to  stoutness  incline  far  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  the  lean  ladies  naturally  suffered  less 
from  the  temperature  than  their  sisters.  The  shorn 
lamb  is  cared  for,  but  often  there  seems  the  inten 
tion  to  impart  a  moral  in  the  refusal  of  Providence 
to  temper  warm  weather  to  the  full-bodied. 

Old  Tom  Martin  expressed  a  strong  conscious 
ness  of  such  intention  when  he  observed  to  the 
shocked  Miss  Selina,  as  Mr.  Bill  Snoddy,  the  stout 
est  citizen  of  the  county,  waddled  abnormally  up 
the  aisle:  "The  Almighty  must  be  gittin'  a  heap 
of  fun  out  of  Bill  Snoddy  to-night." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Martin!"  exclaimed  Miss  Tibbs,  flut 
tering  at  his  irreverence. 

"Why,  you  would  yourself,  Miss  Seliny,"  re 
turned  old  Tom.  Mr.  Martin  always  spoke  in  one 
key,  never  altering  the  pitch  of  his  high,  dry,  unc 
tuous  drawl,  though,  when  his  purpose  was  more 
than  ordinarily  humorous,  his  voice  assumed  a 
shade  of  melancholy.  Now  and  then  he  meditatively 


26     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

passed  his  fingers  through  his  gray  beard,  which 
followed  the  line  of  his  jaw,  leaving  his  upper  lip 
and  most  of  his  chin  smooth-shaven.  "Did  you 
ever  reason  out  why  folks  laugh  so  much  at  fat 
people?"  he  continued.  "No,  ma'am.  Neither'd 
anybody  else." 

"Why  is  it,  Mr.  Martin?"  asked  Miss  Selina. 

"It's  like  the  Creator's  sayin',  'Let  there  be  light.' 
He  says,  'Let  ladies  be  lovely—  (Miss  Tibbs 

bowed) — "and  'Let  men-folks  be  honest — some 
times;'  and,  'Let  fat  people  be  held  up  to  ridicule 
till  they  fall  off.'  You  can't  tell  why  it  is;  it  was 
jest  ordained  that-a-way." 

The  room  was  so  crowded  that  the  juvenile  por 
tion  of  the  assemblage  was  ensconced  in  the  windows. 
Strange  to  say,  the  youth  of  Plattville  were  not 
present  under  protest,  as  their  fellows  of  a  metrop 
olis  would  have  been,  lectures  being  well  under 
stood  by  the  young  of  great  cities  to  have  instructive 
tendencies.  The  boys  came  to-night  because  they 

4 

insisted  upon  coming.  It  was  an  event.  Some  of 
them  had  made  sacrifices  to  come,  enduring  even 
the  agony  (next  to  hair-cutting  in  suffering)  of 
having  their  ears  washed.  Conscious  of  parental 
eyes,  they  fronted  the  public  with  boyhood's  pro- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     27 

fessional  expressionlessness,  though  they  communi 
cated  with  each  other  aside  in  a  cipher-language  of 
their  own,  and  each  group  was  a  hot-bed  of  furtive 
gossip  and  sarcastic  comment.  Seated  in  the  win 
dows,  they  kept  out  what  small  breath  of  air  might 
otherwise  have  stolen  in  to  comfort  the  audience. 

Their  elders  sat  patiently  dripping  with  perspira 
tion,  most  of  the  gentlemen  undergoing  the  unusual 
garniture  of  stiffly-starched  collars,  those  who  had 
not  cultivated  chin  beards  to  obviate  such  arduous 
necessities  of  pomp  and  state,  hardly  bearing  up 
under  the  added  anxiety  of  cravats.  However,  they 
sat  outwardly  meek  under  the  yoke;  nearly  all  of 
them  seeking  a  quiet  solace  of  tobacco — not  that 
they  smoked;  Heaven  and  the  gallantry  of  Carlow 
County  forbid — nor  were  there  anywhere  visible 
tokens  of  the  comforting  ministrations  of  nicotine 
to  violate  the  eye  of  etiquette.  It  is  an  art  of 
Plattville. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  hum  and  a  stir  and  a  buzz 

» 

of  whispering  in  the  room.  Two  gray  old  men  and 
two  pretty  young  women  passed  up  the  aisle  to  the 
platform.  One  old  man  was  stalwart  and  ruddy, 
with  a  cordial  eye  and  a  handsome,  smooth-shaven, 
big  face.  The  other  was  bent  and  trembled  slightly; 


28     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

his  face  was  very  white;  he  had  a  fine  high  brow, 
deeply  lined,  the  brow  of  a  scholar,  and  a  grandly 
flowing  white  beard  that  covered  his  chest,  the 
beard  of  a  patriarch.  One  of  the  young  women  was 
tall  and  had  the  rosy  cheeks  and  pleasant  eyes  of 
her  father,  who  preceded  her.  The  other  was  the 
strange  lady. 

A  universal  perturbation  followed  her  progress  up 
the  aisle,  if  she  had  known  it.  She  was  small  and 
fair,  very  daintily  and  beautifully  made;  a  pretty 
Marquise  whose  head  Greuze.  should  have  painted 
Mrs.  Columbus  Landis,  wife  of  the  proprietor  of  the 
Palace  Hotel,  conferring  with  a  lady  in  the  next 
seat,  applied  an  over-burdened  adjective:  "It  ain't 
so  much  she's  han'some,  though  she  is,  thai — but 
don't  you  notice  she's  got  a  kind  of  smart  look  to 
her?  Her  bein'  so  teeny,  kind  of  makes  it  more  so, 
somehow,  too."  What  stunned  the  gossips  of  the 
windows  to  awed  admiration,  however,  was  the 
unconcerned  and  stoical  fashion  in  which  she  wore 
a  long  bodkin  straight  through  her  head.  It  seemed 
a  large  sacrifice  merely  to  make  sure  one's  hat 
remained  in  place. 

The  party  took  seats  a  little  to  the  left  and  rear 
of  the  lecturer's  table,  and  faced  the  audience.  The 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     29 

strange  lady  chatted  gaily  with  the  other  three, 
apparently  as  unconscious  of  the  multitude  of  eyes 
fixed  upon  her  as  the  gazers  were  innocent  of  rude 
intent.  There  were  pretty  young  women  in  Platt- 
ville;  Minnie  Briscoe  was  the  prettiest,  and,  as  the 
local  glass  of  fashion  reflected,  "the  stylishest";  but 
this  girl  was  different,  somehow,  in  a  way  the 
critics  were  puzzled  to  discover — different,  from 
the  sparkle  of  her  eyes  and  the  crown  of  her  trim 
sailor  hat,  to  the  edge  of  her  snowy  duck  skirt. 

Judd  Bennett  sighed  a  sigh  that  was  heard  in 
every  corner  of  the  room.  As  everybody  imme 
diately  turned  to  look  at  him,  he  got  up  and  went 
out. 

It  had  long  been  a  jocose  fiction  of  Mr.  Martin, 
who  was  a  widower  of  thirty  years'  standing,  that 
be  and  the  gifted  authoress  by  his  side  were  in  a 
state  of  courtship.  Now  he  bent  his  rugged  head 
toward  her  to  whisper:  "I  never  thought  to  see  the 
day  you'd  have  a  rival  in  my  affections,  Mass  Seliny, 
but  yonder  looks  like  it.  I  reckon  I'll  have  to  go 
up  to  Ben  Tinkle's  and  buy  that  fancy  vest  he's 
had  in  stock  this  last  twelve  year  or  more.  Will 
you  take  me  back  when  she's  left  the  city  again, 
Miss  Seliny?"  he  drawled.  "I  expect,  maybe,  Miss 


30     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Sherwood  is  one  of  these  here  summer  girls.  I've 
heard  of  'em  but  I  never  see  one  before.  You 
better  take  warning  and  watch  me — Fisbee  won't 
have  no  clear  field  from  now  on." 

The  stranger  leaned  across  to  speak  to  Miss 
Briscoe  and  her  sleeve  touched  the  left  shoulder  of 
the  old  man  with  the  patriarchal  white  beard.  A 
moment  later  he  put  his  right  hand  to  that  shoulder 
and  gently  moved  it  up  and  down  with  a  caressing 
motion  over  the  shabby  black  broadcloth  her  gar 
ment  had  touched. 

"Look  at  that  old  Fisbee!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Martin, 
affecting  indignation.  "Never  be  'n  half  as  spruced 
up  and  wide  awake  in  all  his  life.  He's  prob'ly 
got  her  to  listen  to  him  on  the  decorations  of 
Nineveh — it's  my  belief  he  was  there  when  it  was 
destroyed.  Well,  if  I  can't  cut  him  out  we'll  get  our 
respected  young  friend  of  the  'Herald'  to  do  it." 

"Sh!"  returned  Miss  Tibbs.    "Here  he  is." 

The  seats  upon  the  platform  were  all  occupied, 
except  the  two  foremost  ones  in  the  centre  (one  on 
each  side  of  a  little  table  with  a  lamp,  a  pitcher  of 
ice-water,  and  a  glass)  reserved  for  the  lecturer  and 
the  gentleman  who  was  to  introduce  him.  Steps 
were  audible  in  the  hall,  and  every  one  turned  tc 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     31 

watch  the  door,  where  the  distinguished  pair  now 
made  their  appearance  in  a  hush  of  expectation  over 
which  the  beating  of  the  fans  alone  prevailed.  The 
Hon.  Kedge  Hallo  way  was  one  of  the  gleaners  of 
the  flesh-pots,  himself,  and  he  marched  into  the 
room  unostentatiously  mopping  his  shining  expanse 
of  brow  with  a  figured  handkerchief.  He  was  a 
person  of  solemn  appearance;  a  fat  gold  watch- 
chain  which  curved  across  his  ponderous  front,  add 
ing  mysteriously  to  his  gravity.  At  his  side  strolled 
a  very  tall,  thin,  rather  stooping — though  broad- 
shouldered — rather  shabby  young  man  with  a  sal 
low,  melancholy  face  and  deep-set  eyes  that  looked 
tired.  When  they  were  seated,  the  orator  looked 
over  his  audience  slowly  and  with  an  incomparable 
calm;  then,  as  is  always  done,  he  and  the  melan 
choly  young  man  exchanged  whispers  for  a  few 
moments.  After  this  there  was  a  pause,  at  the  end 
of  which  the  latter  rose  and  announced  that  it  was 
his  pleasure  and  his  privilege  to  introduce,  that 
evening,  a  gentleman  who  needed  no  introduction  to 
that  assemblage.  What  citizen  of  Carlow  needed  an 
introduction,  asked  the  speaker,  to  the  orator  they 
had  applauded  in  the  campaigns  of  the  last  twenty 
years,  the  statesman  author  of  the  Halloway  Bill, 


m     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

the  most  honored  citizen  of  the  neighboring  and 
flourishing  county  and  city  of  Amo?  And,  the 
speaker  would  say,  that  if  there  were  one  thing  the 
citizens  of  Carlow  could  be  held  to  envy  the  citizens 
of  Amo,  it  was  the  Honorable  Kedge  Halloway,  the 
thinker,  to  whose  widely-known  paper  they  were 
about  to  have  the  pleasure  and  improvement  of 
listening. 

The  introduction  was  so  vehemently  applauded 
that,  had  there  been  present  a  person  connected 
with  the  theatrical  profession,  he  might  have  been 
nervous  for  fear  the  introducer  had  prepared  no 
encore.  "Kedge  is  too  smart  to  take  it  all  to  him 
self,"  commented  Mr.  Martin.  "He  knows  it's  hah6 
account  of  the  man  that  said  it." 

He  was  not  mistaken.  Mr.  Halloway  had  learned 
a  certain  perceptiveness  on  the  stump.  Resting  one 
hand  upon  his  unfolded  notes  upon  the  table,  he 
turned  toward  the  melancholy  young  man  (who  had 
subsided  into  the  small  of  his  back  in  his  chair)  and, 
after  clearing  his  throat,  observed  with  sudden  ve 
hemence  that  he  must  thank  his  gifted  friend  for 
his  flattering  remarks,  but  that  when  he  said  that 
Carlow  envied  Amo  a  Halloway,  it  must  be  replied 
that  Amo  grudged  no  glory  to  her  sister  county  of 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     33 

Carlow,  but,  if  Amo  could  find  envy  in  her  heart  it 
would  be  because  Carlow  possessed  a  paper  so 
sterling,  so  upright,  so  brilliant,  so  enterprising  as 
the  "Carlow  County  Herald,"  and  a  journalist  so 
talented,  so  gifted,  so  energetic,  so  fearless,  as  its 
editor. 

The  gentleman  referred  to  showed  very  faint  ap 
preciation  of  these  ringing  compliments.  There  was 
a  lamp  on  the  table  beside  him,  against  which,  to 
the  view  of  Miss  Sherwood  of  Rouen,  his  face  was 
silhouetted,  and  very  rarely  had  it  been  her  lot  to 
see  a  man  look  less  enthusiastic  under  public  and 
favorable  comment  of  himself.  She  wondered  if  he, 
also,  remembered  the  Muggleton  cricket  match  and 
the  subsequent  dinner  oratory. 

The  lecture  proceeded.  The  orator  winged  away 
to  soary  heights  with  gestures  so  vigorous  as  to 
cause  admiration  for  his  pluck  in  making  use  of  them 
on  such  a  night;  the  perspiration  streamed  down 
his  face,  his  neck  grew  purple,  and  he  dared  the 
very  face  of  apoplexy,  binding  his  auditors  with  a 
double  spell.  It  is  true  that  long  before  the  perora 
tion  the  windows  were  empty  and  the  boys  were  eat 
ing  stolen,  unripe  fruit  in  the  orchards  of  the  listeners. 
The  thieves  were  sure  of  an  alibi. 


34     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

The  Hon.  Mr.  Hallo  way  reached  a  logical  con 
clusion  which  convinced  even  the  combative  and  un 
willing  that  the  present  depends  largely  upon  the 
past,  while  the  future  will  be  determined,  for  the 
most  part,  by  the  conditions  of  the  present.  "The 
future,"  he  cried,  leaning  forward  with  an  expression 
of  solemn  warning,  "The  future  is  in  our  own  hands, 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  city  of  Plattville.  Is 
it  not  so?  We  will  find  it  so.  Turn  it  over  in  your 
minds."  He  leaned  backward  and  folded  his  hands 
benevolently  on  his  stomach  and  said  in  a  searching 
whisper:  "Ponder  it."  He  waited  for  them  to  pon 
der  it,  and  little  Mr.  Swanter,  the  druggist  and  book 
seller,  who  prided  himself  on  his  politeness  and  who 
was  seated  directly  in  front,  scratched  his  head  and 
knit  his  brows  to  show  that  he  was  pondering  it. 
The  stillness  was  intense;  the  fans  ceased  to  beat; 
Mr.  Snoddy  could  be  heard  breathing  dangerously. 
Mr.  Swanter  was  considering  the  advisability  of 
drawing  a  pencil  from  his  pocket  and  figuring  on 
it  upon  his  cuff,  when  suddenly,  with  the  energy 
of  a  whirlwind,  the  lecturer  threw  out  his  arms  to 
their  fullest  extent  and  roared:  "It  is  a,  fact!  It  is 
carven  on  stone  in  the  gloomy  caverns  of  TIME.  It 
is  writ  in  FIRE  on  the  imperishable  walls  of  Fate!" 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     35 

After  the  outburst,  his  voice  sank  with  startling 
rapidity  to  a  tone  of  honeyed  confidence,  and  he 
wagged  an  inviting  forefinger  at  Mr.  Snoddy,  who 
opened  his  mouth.  "Shall  we  take  an  example?  Not 
from  the  marvellous,  my  friends;  let  us  seek  an 
illustration  from  the  ordinary.  Is  that  not  better? 
One  familiar  to  the  humblest  of  us.  One  we  can  all 
comprehend.  One  from  our  every-day  life.  One 
which  will  interest  even  the  young.  Yes.  The 
common  house-fly.  On  a  window-sill  we  place  a  bit 
of  fly-paper,  and  contiguous  to  it,  a  flower  upon 
which  the  happy  insect  likes  to  feed  and  rest.  The 
little  fly  approaches.  See,  he  hovers  between  the 
two.  One  is  a  fatal  trap,  an  ambuscade,  and  the 
other  a  safe  harbor  and  an  innocuous  haven.  But 
mystery  allures  him.  He  poises,  undecided.  That 
is  the  present.  That,  my  friends,  is  the  Present! 
What  will  he  do?  WHAT  will  he  do?  What  will  he 
DO?  Memories  of  the  past  are  whispering  to  him: 
*  Choose  the  flower.  Light  on  the  posy.'  Here  we 
clearly  see  the  influence  of  the  past  upon  the  present. 
But,  to  employ  a  figure  of  speech,  the  fly-paper 
beckons  to  the  insect  toothsomely,  and,  thinks  he: 
'Shall  I  give  it  a  try?  Shall  I?  Shall  I  give  it  a 
try?'  The  future  is  in  his  own  hands  to  make  or 


36     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

unmake.  The  past,  the  voice  of  Providence,  has 
counselled  him:  'Leave  it  alone,  leave  it  alone,  little 
fly.  Go  away  from  there.'  Does  he  heed  the  warn 
ing?  Does  he  heed  it,  ladies  and  gentlemen?  Does 
he?  Ah,  no!  He  springs  into  the  air,  decides  be 
tween  the  two  attractions,  one  of  them,  so  deadly 
to  his  interests  and — drops  upon  the  fly-paper  to 
perish  miserably!  The  future  is  in  his  hands  no 
longer.  We  must  lie  upon  the  bed  that  we  have 
made,  nor  can  Providence  change  its  unalterable 
decrees." 

After  the  tragedy,  the  orator  took  a  swallow  of 
water,  mopped  his  brow  with  the  figured  handker 
chief  and  announced  that  a  new  point  herewith 
presented  itself  for  consideration.  The  audience 
sank  back  with  a  gasp  of  release  from  the  strain  of 
attention.  Minnie  Briscoe,  leaning  back,  breathless 
like  the  others,  became  conscious  that  a  tremor 
agitated  her  visitor.  Miss  Sherwood  had  bent  her 
head  behind  the  shelter  of  the  judge's  broad  shoul 
ders;  was  shaking  slightly  and  had  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands. 

"What  is  it,  Helen?"  whispered  Miss  Briscoe, 
anxiously.  "What  is  it?  Is  something  the  matter?" 

"Nothing.  Nothing,     dear."     She     dropped    her 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     37 

hands  from  her  face.  Her  cheeks  were  deep  crim 
son,  and  she  bit  her  lip  with  determination. 

"Oh,  but  there  is!  Why,  you've  tears  in  your 
eyes.  Are  you  faint?  What  is  it?" 

"It  is  only — only '  Miss  Sherwood  choked, 

then  cast  a  swift  glance  at  the  profile  of  the  melan 
choly  young  man.  The  perfectly  dismal  decorum  of 
this  gentleman  seemed  to  inspire  her  to  maintain  her 
own  gravity.  "It  is  only  that  it  seemed  such  a  pity 
about  that  fly,"  she  explained.  From  where  they 
sat  the  journalistic  silhouette  was  plainly  visible, 
and  both  Fisbee  and  Miss  Sherwood  looked  toward 
it  often,  the  former  with  the  wistful,  apologetic  fidel 
ity  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  an  old  setter  watching  his 
master. 

When  the  lecture  was  over  many  of  the  audience 
pressed  forward  to  shake  the  Hon.  Mr.  Halloway's 
hand.  Tom  Martin  hooked  his  arm  in  that  of  the 
sallow  gentleman  and  passed  out  with  him. 

"Mighty  humanizin'  view  Kedge  took  of  that  there 
insect,"  remarked  Mr.  Martin.  "I  don't  recollect  I 
ever  heard  of  no  mournfuller  error  than  that'n.  I 
noticed  you  spoke  of  Hallo  way  as  a  'thinker,'  with 
out  mentioning  what  kind.  I  didn't  know,  before, 
that  you  were  as  cautious  a  man  as  that." 


38     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Does  your  satire  find  nothing  sacred,  Martin?" 
returned  the  other,  "not  even  the  Honorable  Kedge 
Halloway?" 

"I    wouldn't    presume,"    replied    old    Tom,    "to 

* 

make  light  of  the  catastrophe  that  overtook  the 
heedless  fly.  When  Halloway  went  on  to  other 
subjects  I  was  so  busy  picturin'  the  last  moments 
of  that  closin'  life,  stuck  there  in  the  fly-paper,  I 
couldn't  listen  to  him.  But  there's  no  use  dwellin' 
on  a  sorrow  we  can't  help.  Look  at  the  moon;  it's 
full  enough  to  cheer  us  up."  They  had  emerged 
from  the  court-house  and  paused  on  the  street  as 
the  stream  of  townsfolk  divided  and  passed  by 
them  to  take  different  routes  leading  from  the 
Square.  Not  far  away,  some  people  were  getting 
into  a  buckboard.  Fisbee  and  Miss  Sherwood  were 
already  on  the  rear  seat. 

"Who's  with  him,  to-night,  Mr.  Fisbee?"  asked 
Judge  Briscoe  in  a  low  voice. 

"No  one.  He  is  going  directly  to  the  office. 
To-morrow  is  Thursday,  one  of  our  days  of  publica 
tion." 

"Oh,  then  it's  all  right.  Climb  in,  Minnie,  we're 
waiting  for  you."  The  judge  offered  his  hand  to 
his  daughter. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     39 

"In  a  moment,  father,"  she  answered.  "I'm 
going  to  ask  him  to  call,"  she  said  to  the  other 
girl. 

"But  won't  he " 

Miss  Briscoe  laughed.  "He  never  comes  to  see 
me!"  She  walked  over  to  where  Martin  and  the 
young  man  were  looking  up  at  the  moon,  and 
addressed  the  journalist. 

"I've  been  trying  to  get  a  chance  to  speak  to  you, 
for  a  week,"  she  said,  offering  him  her  hand;  "I 
wanted  to  tell  you  I  had  a  friend  coming  to  visit  me. 
Won't  you  come  to  see  us?  She's  here." 

The  young  man  bowed.  "Thank  you,"  he 
answered.  "Thank  you,  very  much.  I  shall  be 
very  glad."  His  tone  had  the  meaningless  quality 
of  perfunctory  courtesy;  Miss  Briscoe  detected  only 
the  courtesy;  but  the  strange  lady  marked  the  lack 
of  intention  in  his  words. 

"Don't  you  include  me,  Minnie?"  inquired  Mr. 
Martin,  plaintively.  "I'll  try  not  to  be  too  fas- 
cinatin',  so  as  to  give  our  young  friend  a  show.  It 
was  love  at  first  sight  with  me.  I  give  Miss  Seliny 
warning  soon  as  your  folks  come  in  and  I  got  a 
good  look  at  the  lady." 

As  the  buckboard  drove  away,  Miss  Sherwood, 


40     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

who  had  been  gazing  steadfastly  at  the  two  figures 
still  standing  in  the  street,  the  tall  ungainly  old  one, 
and  the  taller,  loosely-held  young  one  (he  had  not 
turned  to  look  at  her)  withdrew  her  eyes  from  them, 
bent  them  seriously  upon  Fisbee,  and  asked:  "What 
did  you  mean  when  you  said  no  one  was  with  him 
to-night?" 

"That  no  one  was  watching  him,"  he  answered. 

"Watching  him?     I  don't  understand." 

"Yes;  he  has  been  shot  at  from  the  woods  at  night 
and " 

The  girl  shivered.    "But  who  watches  him?" 

"The  young  men  of  the  town.  He  has  a  habit 
of  taking  long  walks  after  dark,  and  he  is  heedless 
of  all  remonstrance.  He  laughs  at  the  idea  of  cur 
tailing  the  limit  of  his  strolls  or  keeping  within  the 
town  when  night  has  fallen;  so  the  young  men  have 
organized  a  guard  for  him,  and  every  evening  one  of 
them  follows  him  until  he  goes  to  the  office  to  work 
for  the  night.  It  is  .a  different  young  man  every 
evening,  and  the  watcher  follows  at  a  distance  so 
that  he  does  not  suspect." 

"But  how  many  people  know  of  this  arrange 
ment?" 

"Nearly    every    one    in    the    county    except    the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     41 

Cross-Roads  people,  though  it  is  not  improbable 
that  they  have  discovered  it." 

"And  has  no  one  told  him" 

"No;  it  would  annoy  him;  he  would  not  allow 
it  to  continue.  He  will  not  even  arm  himself." 

"They  follow  and  watch  him  night  after  night,  and 
every  one  knows  and  no  one  tells  him?  Oh,  I  must 
say,"  cried  the  girl,  "I  think  these  are  good  people." 

The  stalwart  old  man  on  the  front  seat  shook  out 
the  reins  and  whined  the  whip  over  his  roans'  backs. 
"They  are  the  people  of  your  State  and  mine,  Miss 
Sherwood,"  he  said  in  his  hearty  voice,  "the  best 
people  in  God's  world — and  I'm  not  running  for 
Congress,  either!" 

"But  how  about  the  Six-Cross-Roads  people, 
father?"  asked  Minnie. 

"We'll  wipe  them  clean  out  some  day,"  answered 
her  father — "possibly  judicially,  possibly " 

"Surely  judiciously?"  suggested  Miss  Sherwood. 

"If  you  care  to  see  what  a  bad  settlement  looks 
like,  we'll  drive  through  there  to-morrow — by  day 
light,"  said  Briscoe.  "Even  the  doctor  doesn't 
insist  on  being  in  that  neighborhood  after  dark. 
They  are  trying  their  best  to  get  Harkless,  and  if 
they  do " 


42     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"If  they  do!"  repeated  Miss  Sherwood.  She 
clasped  Ffsbee's  hand  gently.  His  eyes  shone  and 
he  touched  her  fingers  with  a  strange,  shy  reverence. 

"You  will  meet  him  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  and  pressed  his  hand.  "I'm  afraid 
not.  He  wasn't  even  interested  enough  to  look  at 
me." 


CHAPTER  in 

LONESOMENESS 

WHEN  the  rusty  hands  of  the  office  clock 
marked  half-past  four,  the  editor-in-chief 
of  the  "Carlow  County  Herald"  took  his 
hand  out  of  his  hair,  wiped  his  pen  on  his  last  notice 
from  the  White-Caps,  put  on  his  coat,  swept  out  the 
close  little  entry,  and  left  the  sanctum  for  the  bright 
June  afternoon. 

He  chose  the  way  to  the  west,  strolling  thought 
fully  out  of  town  by  the  white,  hot,  deserted  Main 
Street,  and  thence  onward  by  the  country  road  into 
which  its  proud  half-mile  of  old  brick  store  build 
ings,  tumbled-down  frame  shops  and  thinly  painted 
cottages  degenerated.  The  sun  was  in  his  face, 
where  the  road  ran  between  the  summer  fields,  lying 
waveless,  low,  gracious  in  promise;  but,  coming  to 
a  wood  of  hickory  and  beech  and  walnut  that  stood 
beyond,  he  might  turn  his  down-bent-hat-brim  up 
and  hold  his  head  erect.  Here  the  shade  fell  deep 

and  cool  on  the  green  tangle  of  rag  and  iron  weed 

43 


44     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  long  grass  in  the  corners  of  the  snake  fence, 
although  the  sun  beat  upon  the  road  so  close  beside. 
There  was  no  movement  in  the  crisp  young  leaves 
overhead;  high  in  the  boughs  there  was  a  quick 
flirt  of  crimson  where  two  robins  hopped  noiselessly. 
No  insect  raised  resentment  of  the  lonesomeness : 
the  late  afternoon,  when  the  air  is  quite  still,  had 
come;  yet  there  rested — somewhere — on  the  quiet 
day,  a  faint,  pleasant,  woody  smell.  It  came  to  the 
editor  of  the  "Herald"  as  he  climbed  to  the  top  rail 
of  the  fence  for  a  seat,  and  he  drew  a  long,  deep 
breath  to  get  the  elusive  odor  more  luxuriously — • 
and  then  it  was  gone  altogether. 

"A  habit  of  delicacies,"  he  said  aloud,  addressing 
the  wide  silence  complainingly.  He  drew  a  faded 
tobacco-bag  and  a  brier  pipe  from  his  coat  pocket 
and  filled  and  lit  the  pipe.  "One  taste — and  they 
quit,"  he  finished,  gazing  solemnly  upon  the  shining 
little  town  down  the  road.  He  twirled  the  pouch 
mechanically  about  his  finger,  and  then,  suddenly 
regarding  it,  patted  it  caressingly.  It  had  been  a 
giddy  little  bag,  long  ago,  satin,  and  gay  with 
embroidery  in  the  colors  of  the  editor's  university; 
and  although  now  it  was  frayed  to  the  verge  of 
tatters,  it  still  bore  an  air  of  pristine  jauntiness,  an 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     45 

air  of  which  its  owner  in  no  wise  partook.  He  looked 
from  it  over  the  fields  toward  the  town  in  the  clear 
distance  and  sighed  softly  as  he  put  the  pouch  back 
in  his  pocket,  and,  resting  his  arm  on  his  knee  and 
his  chin  in  his  hand,  sat  blowing  clouds  of  smoke  out 
of  the  shade  into  the  sunshine,  absently  watching  the 
ghostly  shadows  dance  on  the  white  dust  of  the 
road. 

A  little  garter  snake  crept  under  the  fence  beneath 
him  and  disappeared  in  the  underbrush;  a  rabbit 
progressing  timidly  on  his  travels  by  a  series  of  bril 
liant  dashes  and  terror-smitten  halts,  came  within 
a  few  yards  of  him,  sat  up  with  quivering  nose  and 
eyes  alight  with  fearful  imaginings — vanished,  a 
flash  of  fluffy  brown  and  white.  Shadows  grew 
longer;  the  brier  pipe  sputtered  feebly  in  depletion 
and  was  refilled.  A  cricket  chirped  and  heard 
answer;  there  was  a  woodland  stir  of  breezes;  and 
the  pair  of  robins  left  the  branches  overhead  in  eager 
flight,  vacating  before  the  arrival  of  a  great  flock  of 
blackbirds  hastening  thither  ere  the  eventide  should 
be  upon  them.  The  blackbirds  came,  chattered, 
gossiped,  quarrelled,  and  beat  each  other  with  their 
wings  above  the  smoker  sitting  on  the  top  fence  rail. 

But  he  had  remembered — it  was  Commencement. 


46     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

To-day,  a  thousand  miles  to  the  east,  a  company  of 
grave  young  gentlemen  sat  in  semi-circular  rows  be 
fore  a  central  altar,  while  above  them  rose  many 
tiers  of  mothers  and  sisters  and  sweethearts,  listen 
ing  to  the  final  word.  He  could  see  it  all  very  clearly : 
the  lines  of  freshly  shaven,  boyish  faces,  the  dainty 
gowns,  the  flowers  and  bright  eyes  above,  and  the 
light  that  filtered  in  through  stained  glass  to  fall 
softly  over  them  all,  with,  here  and  there,  a  vivid 
splash  of  color,  Gothic  shaped.  He  could  see  the 
throngs  of  white-clad  loungers  under  the  elms  with 
out,  under-classmen,  bored  by  the  Latin  addresses 
and  escaped  to  the  sward  and  breeze  of  the  campus; 
there  were  the  troops  of  roistering  graduates  trot 
ting  about  arm  in  arm,  and  singing;  he  heard  the 
mandolins  on  the  little  balconies  play  an  old  refrain 
and  the  university  cheering  afterward;  saw  the  old 
professor  he  had  cared  for  most  of  all,  with  the  thin 
white  hair  straggling  over  his  silken  hood,  following 
the  band  in  the  sparse  ranks  of  his  class.  And  he 
saw  his  own  Commencement  Day — and  the  station 
at  the  junction  where  he  stood  the  morning  after, 
looking  across  the  valley  at  the  old  towers  for  the 
last  time;  saw  the  broken  groups  of  his  class,  stand 
ing  upon  the  platform  on  the  other  side  of  the  tracks, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     47 

waiting  for  the  south-bound  train  as  he  and  others 
waited  for  the  north-bound — and  they  all  sang 
"Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot;"  and,  while 
they  looked  across  at  each  other,  singing,  the  shin 
ing  rails  between  them  wavered  and  blurred  as  the 
engine  rushed  in  and  separated  them  and  their  lives 
thenceforth.  He  filled  his  pipe  again  and  spoke  to 
the  phantoms  gliding  over  the  dust — "Seven  years!" 
He  was  occupied  with  the  realization  that  there  had 
been  a  man  in  his  class  whose  ambition  needed  no 
restraint,  his  promise  was  so  complete — in  the  stromg 
belief  of  the  university,  a  belief  he  could  not  help 
knowing — and  that  seven  years  to  a  day  from  his 
Commencement  this  man  was  sitting  on  a  fence  rail 
in  Indiana. 

Down  the  road  a  buggy  came  creaking  toward 
him,  gray  with  dust,  the  top  canted  permanently  to 
one  side,  old  and  frayed,  like  the  fat,  shaggy,  gray 
mare  that  drew  it;  her  unchecked,  despondent  head 
lowering  before  her,  while  her  incongruous  tail 
waved  incessantly,  like  the  banner  of  a  storming 
party.  The  editor  did  not  hear  the  flop  of  the 
mare's  feet  nor  the  sound  of  the  wheels,  so  deep  was 
his  reverie,  till  the  vehicle  was  nearly  opposite  him, 
The  red-faced  and  perspiring  driver  drew  rein,  and 


48     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

the  journalist  looked  up  and  waved  a  long  white 
hand  to  him  in  greeting. 

"Howdy'  do,  Mr.  Harkless?"  called  the  man  in 
the  buggy.  "Soakin'  in  the  weather?"  He  spoke 
in  shouts,  though  neither  was  hard  of  hearing. 

"Yes;  just  soaking,"  answered  Harkless;  "it's 
such  a  gypsy  day.  How  is  Mr.  Bowlder?" 

"I'm  givin'  good  satisfaction,  thankye,  and  all 
at  home.  She's  in  town;  goin'  in  after  her  now." 

"Give  Mrs.  Bowlder  my  regards,"  said  the  jour 
nalist,  comprehending  the  symbolism.  "How  is 
Hartley?" 

The  farmer's  honest  face  shaded  over,  a  second. 
"He's  be'n  steady  ever  sence  the  night  you  brought 
him  out  home;  six  weeks  straight.  I'm  kind  of 
bothered  about  to-morrow — It's  show-day  and  he 
wants  to  come  in  town  with  us,  and  seems  if  I  hadn't 
any  call  to  say  no.  I  reckon  he'll  have  to  take  his 
chances — and  us,  too."  He  raised  the  reins  and 
clucked  to  the  gray  mare;  "Well,  she'll  be  mad  I 
ain't  there  long  ago.  Ride  in  with  me?  " 

"No,  I  thank  you.  I'll  walk  in  for  the  sake  of  my 
appetite." 

"Wouldn't  encourage  it  too  much — 'livin'  at  the 
Palace  Hotel,' "  observed  Bowlder.  "Sorry  ye  won't 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     49 

ride."  He  gathered  the  loose  ends  of  the  reins 
in  his  hands,  leaned  far  over  the  dashboard  and 
struck  the  mare  a  hearty  thwack;  the  tattered 
banner  of  tail  jerked  indignantly,  but  she  consented 
to  move  down  the  road.  Bowlder  thrust  his  big 
head  through  the  sun-curtain  behind  him  and  con 
tinued  the  conversation:  "See  the  White-Caps 
ain't  got  ye  yet." 

"No,  not  yet."     Harkless  laughed. 

"Reckon  the  boys  'druther  ye  stayed  in  town 
after  dark,"  the  other  called  back;  then,  as  the  mare 
stumbled  into  a  trot,  "Well,  come  out  and  see  us — 
if  ye  kin  spare  time  from  the  jedge's."  The  latter 
clause  seemed  to  be  an  afterthought  intended  with 
humor,  for  Bowlder  accompanied  it  with  the  loud 
laughter  of  sylvan  timidity,  risking  a  joke.  Hark- 
less  nodded  without  the  least  apprehension  of  his 
meaning,  and  waved  farewell  as  Bowlder  finally 
turned  his  attention  to  the  mare.  When  the  flop, 
flop  of  her  hoofs  had  died  out,  the  journalist  realized 
that  the  day  was  silent  no  longer;  it  was  verging  into 
evening. 

He  dropped  from  the  fence  and  turned  his  face 
toward  town  and  supper.  He  felt  the  light  and  life 
about  him;  heard  the  clatter  of  the  blackbirds  above 


50     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

him;  heard  the  homing  bees  hum  by,  and  saw  the 
vista  of  white  road  and  level  landscape,  framed  on 
two  sides  by  the  branches  of  the  grove,  a  vista  of 
infinitely  stretching  fields  of  green,  lined  here  and 
there  with  woodlands  and  flat  to  the  horizon  line, 
the  village  lying  in  their  lap.  No  roll  of  meadow, 
no  rise  of  pasture  land,  relieved  their  serenity  nor 
shouldered  up  from  them  to  be  called  a  hill.  A 
second  great  flock  of  blackbirds  was  settling  down 
over  the  Plattville  maples.  As  they  hung  in  the  fair 
dome  of  the  sky  below  the  few  white  clouds,  it  oc 
curred  to  Harkless  that  some  supping  god  had  in 
advertently  peppered  his  custard,  and  now  inverted 
and  emptied  his  gigantic  blue  dish  upon  the  earth, 
the  innumerable  little  black  dots  seeming  to  poise 
for  a  moment,  then  floating  slowly  down  from  the 
heights. 

A  farm-bell  rang  in  the  distance,  a  tinkling  com 
ing  small  and  mellow  from  far  away,  and  at  the  lone- 
someness  of  that  sound  he  heaved  a  long,  mournful 
sigh.  The  next  instant  he  broke  into  laughter,  for 
another  bell  rang  over  the  fields,  the  court-house 
bell  in  the  Square.  The  first  four  strokes  were  given 
with  mechanical  regularity,  the  pride  of  the  custo 
dian  who  operated  the  bell  being  to  produce  the  effect 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     51 

of  a  clock-work  bell  such  as  he  had  once  heard  in 
the  court-house  at  Rouen;  but  the  fifth  and  sixth 
strokes  were  halting  achievements,  as,  after  four 
o'clock,  he  often  lost  count  on  the  strain  of  the  effort 
for  precise  imitation.  There  was  a  pause  after  the 
sixth,  then  a  dubious  and  reluctant  stroke — seven — 
a  longer  pause,  followed  by  a  final  ring  with  des 
perate  decision — eight!  Harkless  looked  at  his 
watch;  it  was  twenty  minutes  of  six. 

As  he  crossed  the  court-house  yard  to  the  Palace 
Hotel,  he  stopped  to  exchange  a  word  with  the  bell- 
ringer,  who,  seated  on  the  steps,  was  mopping  his 
brow  with  an  air  of  hard-earned  satisfaction. 

"Good-evening,  Schofields',"  he  said.  "You  came 
in  strong  on  the  last  stroke,  to-night." 

"What  we  need  here,"  responded  the  bell-ringer, 
"is  more  public-spirited  men.  I  ain't  kickin'  on 
you,  Mr.  Harkless,  no  sir;  but  we  want  more  men 
like  they  got  in  Rouen;  we  want  men  that'll  git 
Main  Street  paved  with  block  or  asphalt;  men  that'll 
put  in  factories,  men  that'll  act  and  not  set  round  like 
that  ole  fool  Martin  and  laugh  and  polly-woggle  and 
make  fun  of  public  sperrit,  day  in  and  out.  I  reckon 
I  do  my  best  for  the  city." 

"Oh,    nobody    minds    Tom    Martin,"    answered 


52     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Harkless.  "It's  only  half  the  time  he  means  any 
thing  by  what  he  says." 

"That's  jest  what  I  hate  about  him,"  returned  the 
bell-ringer  in  a  tone  of  high  complaint;  "you  can't 
never  tell  which  half  it  is.  Look  at  him  now!" 
Over  in  front  of  the  hotel  Martin  was  standing, 
talking  to  the  row  of  coatless  loungers  who  sat  with 
then*  chairs  tilted  back  against  the  props  of  the 
wooden  awning  that  projected  over  the  sidewalk. 
Their  faces  were  turned  toward  the  court-house,  and 
even  those  lost  in  meditative  whittling  had  looked 
up  to  laugh.  Martin,  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his 
alpaca  coat,  his  rusty  silk  hat  tilted  forward  till  the 
wide  brim  rested  almost  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose, 
was  addressing  them  in  his  one-keyed  voice,  the 
melancholy  whine  of  which,  though  not  the  words, 
penetrated  to  the  court-house  steps. 

The  bell-ringer,  whose  name  was  Henry  Scho- 
field,  but  who  was  known  as  Schofield's  Henry 
(popularly  abbreviated  to  Schofields')  was  moved 
to  indignation.  "Look  at  him,"  he  cried.  "Look  at 
him!  Everlastingly  goin*  on  about  my  bell!  Let 
him  talk,  jest  let  him  talk."  The  supper  gong 
boomed  inside  the  hotel  and  Harkless  bade  the  bell- 
ringer  good-night.  As  he  moved  away  the  latter 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     53 

called  after  him:  "He  don't  disturb  nobody.  Let 
him  talk.  Who  pays  any  'tention  to  him  I'd  like 
to  know?"  There  was  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the 
.  whittlers.  Schofields'  sat  in  patient  silence  for  a  full 
minute,  as  one  who  knew  that  no  official  is  too  lofty 
to  escape  the  anathemas  of  envy.  Then  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  shook  his  fist  at  Martin,  who  was 
disappearing  within  the  door  of  the  hotel.  "Go 
to  Halifax!"  he  shouted. 

The  dining-room  of  the  Palace  Hotel  was  a  large, 
airy  apartment,  rustling  with  artistically  perforated 
and  slashed  pink  paper  that  hung  everywhere,  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  to  lend  festal  effect  as  well 
as  to  palliate  the  scourge  of  flies.  There  were  six  or 
seven  large  tables,  all  vacant  except  that  at  which 
Columbus  Landis,  the  landlord,  sat  with  his  guests, 
while  his  wife  and  children  ate  in  the  kitchen  by 
their  own  preference.  Transient  trade  was  light  in 
Plattville;  nobody  ever  came  there,  except  occasional 
commercial  travellers  who  got  out  of  town  the 
instant  it  was  possible,  and  who  said  awful  things 
if,  by  the  exigencies  of  the  railway  time-table,  they 
were  left  over  night. 

Behind  the  host's  chair  stood  a  red-haired  girl  in 
a  blue  cotton  gown;  and  in  her  hand  she  languidly 


54     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

waved  a  long  instrument  made  of  clustered  strips  of 
green  and  white  and  yellow*  tissue  paper  fastened  to 
a  wooden  wand;  with  this  she  amiably  amused  the 
flies  except  at  such  times  as  the  conversation  proved 
too  interesting,  when  she  was  apt  to  rest  it  on  the 
shoulder  of  one  of  the  guests.  This  happened  each 
time  the  editor  of  the  "Herald"  joined  in  the  talk. 
As  the  men  seated  themselves  they  all  nodded  to 
her  and  said,  "G'd  evening,  Cynthy."  Harkless 
always  called  her  Charmion;  no  one  knew  why. 
When  he  came  in  she  moved  around  the  table  to 
a  chair  directly  opposite  him,  and  held  that  station 
throughout  the  meal,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face. 
Mr.  Martin  noted  this  manoeuvre — it  occurred 
regularly  twice  a  day — wTith  a  stealthy  smile  at  the 
girl,  and  her  light  skin  flushed  while  her  lip  curled 
shrewishly  at  the  old  gentleman.  "Oh,  all  right, 
Cynthy,"  he  whispered  to  her,  and  chuckled  aloud 
at  her  angry  toss  of  the  head. 

"Schofields'  seemed  to  be  kind  of  put  out  with  me 
this  evening,"  he  remarked,  addressing  himself  to 
the  company.  "He's  the  most  ungratefullest  cuss 
I  ever  come  up  with.  I  was  only  oratin'  on  how 
proud  the  city  ought  to  be  of  him.  He  fairly  keeps 
Plattville's  sportin'  spirit  on  the  gog;  'die  out,  wasn't 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     55 

for  him.  There's  be'n  more  money  laid  on  him 
whether  he'll  strike  over  and  above  the  hour,  or 
under  and  below,  or  whether  he'll  strike  fifteen  min 
utes  before  time,  or  twenty  after,  than — well,  sir, 
we'd  all  forgit  the  language  if  it  wasn't  for  Scho- 
fields'  bell  to  keep  us  talkin';  that's  my  claim.  Dull 
days,  think  of  the  talk  he  furnishes  all  over  town. 
Think  what  he's  done  to  promote"  conversation. 
Now,  for  instance,  Anna  Belle  Bardlock's  got  a 
beau,  they  say" — here  old  Tom  tilted  back  in  his 
chair  and  turned  an  innocent  eye  upon  a  youth 
across  the  table,  young  William  Todd,  who  was 
blushing  over  his  griddle-cakes — "and  I  hear  he's 
a  good  deal  scared  of  Anna  Belle  and  not  just  what 
you  might  call  brash  with  her.  They  say  every 
Sunday  night  he'll  go  up  to  Bardlocks'  and  call  on 
Anna  Belle  from  half-past  six  till  nine,  and  when 
he's  got  into  his  chair  he  sets  and  looks  at  the  floor 
and  the  crayon  portraits  till  about  seven;  then  he 
opens  his  tremblin'  lips  and  says,  'Reckon  Scho- 
fields'  must  be  on  his  way  to  the  court-house  by  this 
time.'  And  about  an  hour  later,  when  Schofields' 
hits  four  or  five,  he'll  speak  up  again,  'Say,  I  reckon 
he  means  eight.'  'Long  towards  nine  o'clock,  they 
say  he  skews  around  in  his  chair  and  says,  'Wonder 


56     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

if  he'll  strike  before  time  or  after,'  and  Anna  Belle 
answers  out  loud,  'I  hope  after,'  for  politeness;  but 
in  her  soul  she  says,  'I  pray  before';  and  then  Scho- 
fields'  hits  her  up  for  eighteen  or  twenty,  and  Anna 
Belle's  company  reaches  for  his  hat.  Three  Sun 
days  ago  he  turned  around  before  he  went  out  and 
said,  'Do  you  like  apple-butter?'  but  never  waited 
to  find  out.  It's  the  same  programme  every  Sun 
day  evening,  and  Jim  Bardlock  says  Anna  Belle's 
so  worn  out  you  wouldn't  hardly  know  her  for  the 
blithe  creature  she  was  last  year — the  excitement's 
be'n  too  much  for  her!" 

Poor  William  Todd  bent  his  fiery  face  over  the 
table  and  suffered  the  general  snicker  in  helpless 
silence.  Then  there  was  quiet  for  a  space,  broken 
only  by  the  click  of  knives  against  the  heavy  china 
and  the  indolent  rustle  of  Cynthia's  fly-brush. 

"Town  so  still,"  observed  the  landlord,  finally, 
with  a  complacent  glance  at  the  dessert  course  of 
prunes  to  which  his  guests  were  helping  themselves 
from  a  central  reservoir,  "Town  so  still,  hardly 
seems  like  show-day's  come  round  again.  Yet 
there's  be'n  some  shore  signs  lately:  when  my 
shavers  come  honeyin*  up  with,  'Say,  pa,  ain't  they 
no  urrands  I  can  go  for  ye,  pa?  I  like  to  run  'em 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     57 

for  you,  pa,' — 'relse,  'Oh,  pa,  ain't  they  no  water 
I  can  haul,  or  nothin',  pa?' — 'relse,  as  little  Rosina 
T.  says,  this  morning,  'Pa,  I  always  pray  fer  you, 
pa,'  and  pa  this  and  pa  that — you  can  rely  either 
Christmas  or  show-day's  mighty  close." 

William  Todd,  taking  occasion  to  prove  himself 
recovered  from  confusion,  remarked  casually  that 
there  was  another  token  of  the  near  approach  of  the 
circus,  as  ole  Wilkerson  was  drunk  again. 

"There's  a  man!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Martin  with 
enthusiasm.  "There's  the  feller  for  my  money! 
He  does  his  duty  as  a  citizen  more  discriminatin'ly 
on  public  occasions  than  any  man  I  ever  see. 
There's  Wilkerson's  celebration  when  there's  a 
funeral;  look  at  the  difference  between  it  and  on 
Fourth  of  July.  Why,  sir,  it's  as  melancholy  as  a 
hearse-plume,  and  sympathy  ain't  the  word  for  it 
when  he  looks  at  the  remains,  no  sir;  preacher  nor 
undertaker,  either,  ain't  half  as  blue  and  respectful. 
Then  take  his  circus  spree.  He  come  into  the  store 
this  afternoon,  head  up,  marchin'  like  a  grenadier 
and  shootin'  his  hand  out  before  his  face  and  drawin' 
it  back  again,  and  hollering  out,  'Ta,  ta,  ta-ra-ta,  ta, 
ta-ta-ra' — why,  the  dumbest  man  ever  lived  could 
see  in  a  minute  show's  'comin'  to-morrow  and  Wil- 


58     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

kerson's  playin'  the  trombore.  Then  he'd  snort 
and  goggle  like  an  elephant.  Got  the  biggest  sense 
of  appropriateness  of  any  man  in  the  county,  ^'il- 
kerson  has.  Folks  don't  half  appreciate  him." 

As  each  boarder  finished  his  meal  he  raided  the 
glass  of  wooden  toothpicks  and  went  away  with  no 
standing  on  the  order  of  his  going;  but  Martin 
waited  for  Harkless,  who,  not  having  attended  to 
business  so  concisely  as  the  others,  was  the  last  to 
leave  the  table,  and  they  stood  for  a  moment  under 
the  awning  outside,  lighting  their  cigars. 

"Call  on  the  judge,  to-night?"  asked  Martin. 

"No,"  said  Harkless.    "Why?" 

"Didn't  you  see  the  lady  with  Minnie  and  the 
judge  at  the  lecture?" 

"I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her.  That's  what  Bowlder 
meant,  then." 

"I  don't  know  what  Bowlder  meant,  but  I  guess 
you  better  go  out  there,  young  man.  She  might 
not  stay  here  long." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   WALRUS   AND    THE   CARPENTER 

THE  Briscoe  buckboard  rattled  along  the 
elastic  country-road,  the  roans  setting  a 
sharp  pace  as  they  turned  eastward  on  the 
pike  toward  home  and  supper. 

"They'll  make  the  eight  miles  in  three-quarters 
of  an  hour,"  said  the  judge,  proudly.  He  pointed 
ahead  with  his  whip.  "Just  beyond  that  bend  we 
pass  through  Six-Cross-Roads." 

Miss  Sherwood  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "Can  we 
see  'Mr.  WimbyV  house  from  here?" 

"No,  it's  on  the  other  side,  nearer  town;  we  pass 
it  later.  It's  the  only  respectable-looking  house  in 
this  township."  They  reached  the  turn  of  the  road, 
and  the  judge  touched  up  his  colts  to  a  sharper  gait. 
"No  need  of  dallying,"  he  observed  quietly.  "It 
always  makes  me  a  little  sick  just  to  see  the  place. 
I'd  hate  to  have  a  break-down  here." 

They  came  in  sight  of  a  squalid  settlement,  built 

raggedly  about  a  blacksmith's  shop  and  a  saloon. 

59 


60     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Half-a-dozen  shanties  clustered  near  the  forge,  a  few 
roofs  scattered  through  the  shiftlessly  cultivated 
fields,  four  or  five  barns  propped  by  fence-rails,  some 
sheds  with  gaping  apertures  through  which  the 
light  glanced  from  side  to  side,  a  squad  of  thin, 
"razor-back"  hogs — now  and  then  worried  by  gaunt 
hounds — and  some  abused-looking  hens,  groping 
about  disconsolately  in  the  mire,  a  broken-topped 
buggy  with  a  twisted  wheel  settling  into  the  mud 
of  the  middle  of  the  road  (there  was  always  abundant 
mud,  here,  in  the  dryest  summer),  a  lowering  face 
sneering  from  a  broken  window — Six-Cross-Roads 
was  forbidding  and  forlorn  enough  by  day.  The 
thought  of  what  might  issue  from  it  by  night  was 
unpleasant,  and  the  legends  of  the  Cross-Roads, 
together  with  an  unshapen  threat,  easily  fancied  in 
the  atmosphere  of  the  place,  made  Miss  Sherwood 
shiver  as  though  a  cold  draught  had  crossed  her. 

"It  is  so  sinister!"  she  exclaimed.  "And  so 
unspeakably  mean!  This  is  where  they  live,  the 
people  who  hate  him,  is  it?  The  'White-Caps'?" 

"They  are  just  a  lot  of  rowdies,"  replied  Briscoe. 
"You  have  your  rough  corners  in  big  cities,  and  I 
expect  there  are  mighty  few  parts  of  any  country 
that  don't  have  their  tough  neighborhoods,  only 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     61 

Six-Cross-Roads  happens  to  be  worse  than  most. 
They  choose  to  call  themselves  'White-Caps,'  but 
I  guess  it's  just  a  name  they  like  to  give  themselves. 
Usually  White-Caps  are  a  vigilance  committee  going 
after  rascalities  the  law  doesn't  reach,  or  won't 
reach,  but  these  fellows  are  not  that  kind.  They 
got  together  to  wipe  out  their  grudges — and  some 
times  they  didn't  need  any  grudge  and  let  loose 
their  deviltries  just  for  pure  orneriness;  setting  hay 
stacks  afire  and  such  like;  or,  where  a  farmer  had 
offended  them,  they  would  put  on  their  silly  toggery 
and  take  him  out  at  midnight  and  whip  him  and 
plunder  his  house  and  chase  the  horses  and  cattle 
into  his  corn,  maybe.  They  say  the  women  went 
with  them  on  their  raids." 

"And  he  was  the  first  to  try  to  stop  them?" 
"Well,  you  see  our  folks  are  pretty  long-suffer 
ing,"  Briscoe  replied,  apologetically.  We'd  sort 
of  got  used  to  the  meanness  of  the  Cross-Roads.  It 
took  a  stranger  to  stir  things  up — and  he  did.  He 
sent  eight  of  'em  to  the  penitentiary,  some  for 
twenty  years." 

As  they  passed  the  saloon  a  man  stepped  into  the 
doorway  and  looked  at  them.  He  was  coatless  and 
clad  in  garments  worn  to  the  color  of  dust;  his  bare 


62     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

head  was  curiously  malformed,  higher  on  one  side 
than  on  the  other,  and  though  the  buckboard  passed 
rapidly,  and  at  a  distance,  this  singular  lopsidedness 
was  plainly  visible  to  the  occupants,  lending  an  ugly 
significance  to  his  meagre,  yellow  face.  He  was 
tall,  lean,  hard,  powerfully  built.  He  eyed  the 
strangers  with  affected  languor,  and  then,  when  they 
had  gone  by,  broke  into  sudden,  loud  laughter. 

"That  was  Bob  Skillett,  the  worst  of  the  lot," 
said  the  judge.  "Harkless  sent  his  son  and  one 
brother  to  prison,  and  it  nearly  broke  his  heart  that 
he  couldn't  swear  to  Bob." 

When  they  were  beyond  the  village  and  in  the 
open  road  again,  Miss  Sherwood  took  a  deep  breath. 
"I  think  I  breathe  more  freely,"  she  said.  "That 
was  a  hideous  laugh  he  sent  after  us.  I  had  heard 
of  places  like  this  before — and  I  don't  think  I  care 
to  see  many  of  them.  As  I  understand  it,  Six-Cross- 
Roads  is  entirely  vicious,  isn't  it;  and  bears  the  same 
relation  to  the  country  that  the  slums  do  to  a  city?" 

"That's  about  it.  They  make  their  own  whiskey. 
I  presume;  and  they  have  their  own  fights  amongst 
themselves,  but  they  settle  'em  themselves,  too,  and 
keep  their  own  counsel  and  hush  it  up.  Lige  Wil- 
letts,  Minnie's  friend — I  guess  she's  told  you  about 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     63 

Lige? — well,  Lige  Willetts  will  go  anywhere  when 
he's  following  a  covey,  though  mostly  the  boys 
leave  this  part  of  the  country  alone  when  they're 
hunting;  but  Lige  got  into  a  thicket  back  of  the 
forge  one  morning,  and  he  came  on  a  crowd  of 
buzzards  quarrelling  over  a  heap  on  the  ground,  and 
he  got  out  in  a  hurry.  He  said  he  was  sure  it  was  a 
dog;  but  he  ran  almost  all  the  way  to  Plattville." 

"Father!"  exclaimed  his  daughter,  leaning  from 
the  back  seat.  "Don't  tell  such  stories  to  Helen; 
she'll  think  we're  horrible,  and  you'll  frighten  her, 
too." 

"Well,  it  isn't  exactly  a  lady's  story,"  said  the 
judge.  He  glanced  at  his  guest's  face  and  chuckled. 
"I  guess  we  won't  frighten  her  much,"  he  went  on. 
"Young  lady,  I  don't  believe  you'd  be  afraid  of 
many  things,  would  you?  You  don't  look  like  it. 
Besides,  the  Cross-Roads  isn't  Plattville,  and  the 
White-Caps  have  been  too  scared  to  do  anything 
much,  except  try  to  get  even  with  the  'Herald,'  for 
the  last  two  years;  ever  since  it  went  for  them. 
They're  laying  for  Harkless  partly  for  revenge  and 
partly  because  they  daren't  do  anything  until  he's 
out  of  the  way." 

The  girl  gave  a  low  cry  with  a  sharp  intake  of 


64     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

breath.  "Ah!  One  grows  tired  of  this  everlasting 
American  patience!  Why  don't  the  Plattville 
people  do  something  before  they— 

"It's  just  as  I  say,"  Briscoe  answered;  "our 
folks  are  sort  of  used  to  them.  I  expect  we  do  about 
all  we  can;  the  boys  look  after  him  nights,  and  the 
main  trouble  is  that  we  can't  make  him  under 
stand  he  ought  to  be  more  afraid  of  them.  If  he'd 
lived  here  all  his  life  he  would  be.  You  know  there's 
an  old-time  feud  between  the  Cross-Roads  and  our 
folks;  goes  way  back  into  pioneer  history  and 
mighty  few  know  anything  of  it.  Old  William 
Platt  and  the  forefathers  of  the  Bardlocks  and 
Tibbses  and  Briscoes  and  Schofields  moved  up  here 
from  North  Carolina  a  good  deal  just  to  get  away 
from  some  bad  neighbors,  mostly  Skilletts  and 
Johnsons — one  of  the  Skilletts  had  killed  old  William 
Platt's  two  sons.  But  the  Skilletts  and  Johnsons 
followed  all  the  way  to  Indiana  to  join  in  making 
the  new  settlement,  and  they  shot  Platt  at  his  cabin 
door  one  night,  right  where  the  court-house  stands 
to-day.  Then  the  other  settlers  drove  them  out  for 
good,  and  they  went  seven  miles  west  and  set  up 
a  still.  A  band  of  Indians,  on  the  way  to  join  the 
Shawnee  Prophet  at  Tippecanoe,  came  down  on 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     65 

the  Cross-Roads,  and  the  Cross-Roaders  bought 
them  off  with  bad  whiskey  and  sent  them  over  to 
Plattville.  Nearly  all  the  Plattville  men  were  away, 
fighting  under  Harrison,  and  when  they  came  back 
there  were  only  a  few  half-crazy  women  and  chil 
dren  left.  They'd  hid  in  the  woods. 

"The  men  stopped  just  long  enough  to  hear  how 
it  was,  and  started  for  the  Cross-Roads;  but  the 
Cross-Roads  people  caught  them  in  an  ambush  and 
not  many  of  our  folks  got  back. 

"We  really  never  did  get  even  with  them,  though 
all  the  early  settlers  lived  and  died  still  expecting  to 
see  the  day  when  Plattville  would  go  over  and  pay 
off  the  score.  It's  the  same  now  as  it  was  then,  good 
stock  with  us,  bad  stock  over  here;  and  all  the 
country  riff-raff  in  creation  come  and  live  with  'em 
when  other  places  get  too  hot  to  hold  them.  Only 
one  or  two  of  us  old  folks  know  what  the  original 
trouble  was  about;  but  you  ask  a  Plattville  man,  to 
day,  what  he  thinks  of  the  Cross-Roads  and  he'll  be 
mighty  apt  to  say,  T  guess  we'll  all  have  to  go  over 
there  some  time  and  wipe  those  hoodlums  out.'  It's 
been  coming  to  that  a  long  time.  The  work  the 
'Herald'  did  has  come  nearer  bringing  us  even  with 
Six-Cross-Roads  than  anything  else  ever  has. 


66     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Queer,  too — a  man  that's  only  lived  in  Plattville  a 
few  years  to  be  settling  such  an  old  score  for  us. 
They'll  do  their  best  to  get  him,  and  if  they  do 
there'll  be  trouble  of  an  illegal  nature.  I  think  our 
people  would  go  over  there  again,  but  I  expect  there 
wouldn't  be  any  ambush  this  time;  and  the  pioneers, 
might  rest  easier  in—  He  broke  off  suddenly 

and  nodded  to  a  little  old  man  in  a  buckboard,  who 
was  turning  off  from  the  road  into  a  farm  lane  which 
led  up  to  a  trim  cottage  with  a  honeysuckle  vine  by 
the  door.  "That's  Mrs.  Wimby's  husband,"  said 
the  judge  in  an  undertone. 

Miss  Sherwood  observed  that  "Mrs.  Wimby's 
husband"  was  remarkable  for  the  exceeding  plain- 
tiveness  of  his  expression.  He  was  a  weazened, 
blank,  pale-eyed  little  man,  with  a  thin,  white  mist  of 
neck  whisker;  his  coat  was  so  large  for  him  that  the 
sleeves  were  rolled  up  from  his  wrists  with  several 
turns,  and,  as  he  climbed  painfully  to  the  ground 
to  open  the  gate  of  the  lane,  it  needed  no  perspic 
uous  eye  to  perceive  that  his  trousers  had  been  made 
for  a  much  larger  man,  for,  as  his  uncertain  foot 
left  the  step  of  his  vehicle,  one  baggy  leg  of  the  gar 
ment  fell  down  over  his  foot,  completely  concealing 
his  boot  and  hanging  some  inches  beneath.  A 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     67 

faintly  vexed  expression  crossed  his  face  as  he  en 
deavored  to  arrange  the  disorder,  but  he  looked  up 
and  returned  Briscoe's  bow,  sadly,  with  an  air  of 
explaining  that  he  was  accustomed  to  trouble,  and 
that  the  trousers  had  behaved  no  worse  than  he 
expected. 

No  more  inoffensive  or  harmless  figure  than  this 
feeble  little  old  man  could  be  imagined;  yet  his  was 
the  distinction  of  having  received  a  terrible  visit 
from  his  neighbors  of  the  Cross-Roads.  Mrs.  Wimby 
was  a  widow,  who  owned  a  comfortable  farm,  and 
she  had  refused  every  offer  of  the  neighboring  in 
eligible  bachelors  to  share  it.  However,  a  vaga 
bonding  tinker  won  her  heart,  and  after  their  mar 
riage  she  continued  to  be  known  as  "Mrs.  Wimby"; 
for  so  complete  was  the  bridegroom's  insignificance 
that  it  extended  to  his  name,  which  proved  quite 
unrememberable,  and  he  was  usually  called  "Widder- 
Woman  Wimby's  Husband,"  or,  more  simply,  "Mr. 
Wimby."  The  bride  supplied  the  needs  of  his  ward 
robe  with  the  garments  of  her  former  husband,  and, 
alleging  this  proceeding  as  the  cause  of  their  anger,  the 
Cross-Roads  raiders,  clad  as  "White-Caps,"  broke 
into  the  farmhouse  one  night,  looted  it,  tore  the  old 
man  from  his  bed,  and  compelling  his  wife,  who  was 


68     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

tenderly  devoted  to  him,  to  watch,  they  lashed  him 
with  sapling  shoots  till  he  was  near  to  death.  A  little 
yellow  cur,  that  had  followed  his  master  on  his  wan 
derings,  was  found  licking  the  old  man's  wounds, 
and  they  deluged  the  dog  with  kerosene  and  then 
threw  the  poor  animal  upon  a  bonfire  they  had  made, 
and  danced  around  it  in  heartiest  enjoyment. 

The  man  recovered,  but  that  was  no  palliation  of 
the  offense  to  the  mind  of  a  hot-eyed  young  man 
from  the  East,  who  was  besieging  the  county  au 
thorities  for  redress  and  writing  brimstone  and 
saltpetre  for  his  paper.  The  powers  of  the  county 
proving  either  lackadaisical  or  timorous,  he  ap 
pealed  to  those  of  the  State,  and  he  went  every  night 
to  sleep  at  a  farmhouse,  the  owner  of  which  had 
received  a  warning  from  the  "White-Caps."  And 
one  night  it  befell  that  he  was  rewarded,  for  the 
raiders  attempted  an  entrance.  He  and  the  farmer 
and  the  former's  sons  beat  off  the  marauders  and 
did  a  satisfactory  amount  of  damage  in  return.  Two 
of  the  "White-Caps"  they  captured  and  bound,  and 
others  they  recognized.  Then  the  State  authorities 
hearkened  to  the  voice  of  the  "Herald"  and  its  owner; 
there  were  arrests,  and  in  the  course  of  time  there 
was  a  trial.  Every  prisoner  proved  an  alibi,  could 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     69 

have  proved  a  dozen;  but  the  editor  of  the  "Herald," 
after  virtually  conducting  the  prosecution,  went 
upon  the  stand  and  swore  to  man  after  man.  Eight 
men  went  to  the  penitentiary  on  his  evidence,  five 
of  them  for  twenty  years.  The  Plattville  Brass 
Band  serenaded  the  editor  of  the  "Herald"  again. 

There  were  no  more  raids,  and  the  Six-Cross- 
Roads  men  who  were  left  kept  to  their  hovels,  ap 
palled  and  shaken,  but,  as  time  went  by  and  left 
them  unmolested,  they  recovered  a  measure  of  their 
hardiness  and  began  to  think  on  what  they  should 
do  to  the  man  who  had  brought  misfortune  and 
terror  upon  them.  For  a  long  time  he  had  been 
publishing  their  threatening  letters  and  warnings 
in  a  column  which  he  headed:  "Humor  of  the 
Day." 

"Harkless  don't  understand  the  Cross-Roads," 
Briscoe  said  to  Miss  Sherwood  as  they  left  the 
Wimby  farm  behind;  "and  then  he's  like  most  of 
us;  hardly  any  of  us  realizes  that  harm's  ever  going 
to  come  to  us.  Harkless  was  anxious  enough  about 
other  people,  but 

The  young  lady  interrupted  him,  touching  his 
arm.  "Look!"  she  said,  "Didn't  you  see  a  child, 
a  little  girl,  ahead  of  us  on  the  road?" 


70     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"I  noticed  one  a  minute  ago,  but  she's  not  there 
now,"  answered  Briscoe. 

"There  was  a  child  walking  along  the  road  just 
ahead,  but  she  turned  and  saw  us  coming,  and  she 
disappeared  in  the  most  curious  way;  she  seemed  to 
melt  into  the  weeds  at  the  roadside,  across  from  the 
elder-bush  yonder." 

The  judge  pulled  in  the  horses  by  the  elder-bush. 
"No  child  here,  now,"  he  said,  "but  you're  right; 
there  certainly  was  one,  just  before  you  spoke."  The 
young  corn  was  low  in  the  fields,  and  there  was  no 
hiding-place  in  sight. 

"I'm  very  superstitious;  I  am  sure  it  was  an  imp," 
Miss  Sherwood  said.  "An  imp  or  a  very  large 
chameleon;  she  was  exactly  the  color  of  the  road." 

"A  Cross-Roads  imp,"  said  the  judge,  lifting  the 
reins,  "and  in  that  case  we  might  as  well  give  up.  I 
never  set  up  to  be  a  match  for  those  people,  and 
the  children  are  as  mean  as  their  fathers,  and 
smarter." 

When  the  buckboard  had  rattled  on  a  hundred 
yards  or  so,  a  little  figure  clad  in  a  tattered  cotton 
gown  rose  up  from  the  weeds,  not  ten  feet  from 
where  the  judge  had  drawn  rein,  and  continued  its 
march  down  the  road  toward  Plattville,  capering  in 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     71 

the  dust  and  pursuing  the  buckboard  with  malig 
nant  gestures  till  the  clatter  of  the  horses  was  out  of 
hearing,  the  vehicle  out  of  sight. 

Something  over  two  hours  later,  as  Mr.  Martin 
was  putting  things  to  rights  in  his  domain,  the  Dry- 
Goods  Emporium,  previous  to  his  departure  for  the 
evening's  gossip  and  checkers  at  the  drug-store,  he 
stumbled  over  something  soft,  lying  on  the  floor 
behind  a  counter.  The  thing  rose,  and  would  have 
evaded  him,  but  he  put  out  his  hands  and  pinioned 
it  and  dragged  it  to  the  show-window  where  the 
light  of  the  fading  day  defined  his  capture.  The 
capture  shrieked  and  squirmed  and  fought  earnestly. 
Grasped  by  the  shoulder  he  held  a  lean,  fierce-eyed, 
undersized  girl  of  fourteen,  clad  in  one  ragged  cot 
ton  garment,  unless  the  coat  of  dust  she  wore  over 
all  may  be  esteemed  another.  Her  cheeks  were 
sallow,  and  her  brow  was  already  shrewdly  lined, 
and  her  eyes  were  as  hypocritical  as  they  were 
savage.  She  was  very  thin  and  little,  but  old  Tom's 
brown  face  grew  a  shade  nearer  white  when  the  light 
fell  upon  her. 

"You're  no  Plattville  girl,"  he  said  sharply. 

"You   lie!"   cried   the   child.      "You   lie!     I  am! 


72     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

You  leave  me  go,  will  you?  I'm  lookin'  fer  pap  and 
you're  a  liar!" 

"You  crawled  in  here  to  sleep,  after  your  seven- 
mile  walk,  didn't  you?"  Martin  went  on. 

"You're  a  liar,"  she  screamed  again. 

"Look  here,"  said  Martin,  slowly,  "you  go  back 
to  Six-Cross-Roads  and  tell  your  folks  that  if  any 
thing  happens  to  a  hair  of  Mr.  Harkless's  head 
every  shanty  in  your  town  will  burn,  and  your 
grandfather  and  your  father  and  your  uncles  and 
your  brothers  and  your  cousins  and  your  second- 
cousins  and  your  third-cousins  will  never  have  the 
good  luck  to  see  the  penitentiary.  Reckon  you  can 
remember  that  message?  But  before  I  let  you  go 
to  carry  it,  I  guess  you  might  as  well  hand  out  the 
paper  they  sent  you  over  here  with." 

His  prisoner  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  and 
struck  at  him. 

"I'll  git  pap  to  kill  ye,"  she  shrieked.  "I  don' 
know  nothin'  'bout  yer  Six-Cross-Roads,  ner  no 
papers,  ner  yer  dam  Mister  Harkels  neither,  ner  you, 
ye  razor-backed  ole  devil!  Pap '11  kill  ye;  leave  me 
go — leave  me  go! — Pap'll  kill  ye;  I'll  git  him  to  kill 
ye!"  Suddenly  her  struggles  ceased;  her  eyes 
closed;  her  tense  little  muscles  relaxed  and  she 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     73 

drooped  toward  the  floor;  the  old  man  shifted  his 
grip  to  support  her,  and  in  an  instant  she  twisted 
out  of  his  hands  and  sprang  out  of  reach,  her  eyes 
shining  with  triumph  and  venom. 

"Ya-hay,  Mister  Razor-back!"  she  shrilled. 
"How's  that  fer  hi?  Pap'll  kill  ye,  Sunday.  You'll 
be  screechin'  in  hell  in  a  week,  an'  we  'ull  set  up  an' 
drink  our  apple-jack  an'  laff!"  Martin  pursued 
her  lumberingly,  but  she  was  agile  as  a  monkey, 
and  ran  dodging  up  and  down  the  counters  and 
mocked  him,  singing  "Gran'  mammy  Tipsy-Toe," 
till  at  last  she  tired  of  the  game  and  darted  out  of 
the  door,  flinging  back  a  hoarse  laugh  at  him  as  she 
went.  He  followed;  but  when  he  reached  the  street 
she  was  a  mere  shadow  flitting  under  the  court 
house  trees.  He  looked  after  her  forebodingly,  then 
turned  his  eyes  toward  the  Palace  Hotel.  The 
editor  of  the  "Herald"  was  seated  under  the  awning, 
with  his  chair  tilted  back  against  a  post,  gazing 
dreamily  at  the  murky  red  afterglow  in  the  west. 

"What's  the  use  of  try  in'  to  bother  him  with  it?" 
old  Tom  asked  himself.  "He'd  only  laugh."  He 
noted  that  young  William  Todd  sat  near  the  editor, 
whittling  absently.  Martin  chuckled.  "William's 
turn  to-night,"  he  muttered.  "Well,  the  boys  take 


74     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

mighty  good  care  of  him."  He  locked  the  doors  of 
the  Emporium,  tried  them,  and  dropped  the  keys 
in  his  pocket. 

As  he  crossed  the  Square  to  the  drug-store,  where 
his  cronies  awaited  him,  he  turned  again  to  look  at 
the  figure  of  the  musing  journalist.  "I  hope  he'll 
go  out  to  the  judge's,"  he  said,  and  shook  his  head, 
sadly.  "I  don't  reckon  Plattville's  any  too  spry  for 
that  young  man.  Five  years  he's  be'n  here.  Well, 
it's  a  good  thing  for  us  folks,  but  I  guess  it  ain't 
exactly  high-life  for  him."  He  kicked  a  stick  out 
of  his  way  impatiently.  "Now,  where'd  that  imp 
run  to?"  he  grumbled. 

The  imp  was  lying  under  the  court-house  steps. 
When  the  sound  of  Martin's  footsteps  had  passed 
away,  she  crept  cautiously  from  her  hiding-place 
and  stole  through  the  ungroomed  grass  to  the  fence 
opposite  the  hotel.  Here  she  stretched  herself  flat 
in  the  weeds  and  took  from  underneath  the  tangled 
masses  of  her  hair,  where  it  was  tied  with  a  string, 
a  rolled-up,  crumpled  slip  of  greasy  paper.  With 
this  in  her  fingers,  she  lay  peering  under  the  fence,  her 
fierce  eyes  fixed  unwinkingly  on  Harkless  and  the 
youth  sitting  near  him. 

The  street  ran  flat  and  gray  in  the  slowly  gather- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     75 

ing  dusk,  straight  to  the  western  horizon  where  the 
sunset  embers  were  strewn  in  long,  dark-red  streaks; 
the  maple  trees  were  clean-cut  silhouettes  against 
the  pale  rose  and  pearl  tints  of  the  sky  above,  and 
a  tenderness  seemed  to  tremble  in  the  air.  Harkless 
often  vowed  to  himself  he  would  watch  no  more 
sunsets  in  Plattville;  he  realized  that  their  loveliness 
lent  a  too  unhappy  tone  to  the  imaginings  and 
introspections  upon  which  he  was  thrown  by  the 
loneliness  of  the  environment,  and  he  considered 
that  he  had  too  much  time  in  which  to  think  about 
himself.  For  five  years  his  introspections  had 
monotonously  hurled  one  word  at  him:  "Failure; 
Failure!  Failure!"  He  thought  the  sunsets  were 
making  him  morbid.  Could  he  have  shared  them, 
that  would  have  been  different. 

His  long,  melancholy  face  grew  longer  and  more 
melancholy  in  the  twilight,  while  William  Todd 
patiently  whittled  near  by.  Plattville  had  often 
discussed  the  editor's  habit  of  silence,  and  Mr. 
Martin  had  suggested  that  possibly  the  reason 
Mr.  Harkless  was  such  a  quiet  man  was  that  there 
was  nobody  for  him  to  talk  to.  His  hearers  did 
not  agree,  for  the  population  of  Carlow  County  was 
a  thing  of  pride,  being  greater  than  that  of  several 


76     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

bordering  counties.  They  did  agree,  however,  that 
Harkless's  quiet  was  not  unkind,  whatever  its  cause, 
and  that  when  it  was  broken  it  was  usually  broken 
to  conspicuous  effect.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he 
wrote  so  much  that  he  hated  to  talk. 

A  bent  figure  came  slowly  down  the  street,  and 
William  hailed  it  cheerfully:  "Evening,  Mr. 
Fisbee." 

"A  good  evening,  Mr.  Todd,"  answered  the  old 
man,  pausing.  "Ah,  Mr.  Harkless,  I  was  looking 
for  you."  He  had  not  seemed  to  be  looking  for  any 
thing  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  own  dreams, 
but  he  approached  Harkless,  tugging  nervously  at 
some  papers  in  his  pocket.  "I  have  completed  my 
notes  for  our  Saturday  edition.  It  was  quite  easy; 
there  is  much  doing." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Fisbee,"  said  Harkless,  as  he 
took  the  manuscript.  "Have  you  finished  your 
paper  on  the  earlier  Christian  symbolism?  I  hope 
the  'Herald'  may  have  the  honor  of  printing  it." 
This  was  the  form  they  used. 

"I  shall  be  the  recipient  of  honor,  sir,"  returned 
Fisbee.  "Your  kind  offer  will  speed  my  work;  but 
I  fear,  Mr.  Harkless,  I  very  much  fear,  that  your 
kindness  alone  prompts  it,  for,  deeply  as  I  desire  it, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     77 

I  cannot  truthfully  say  that  my  essays  appear  to 
increase  our  circulation."  He  made  an  odd,  troubled 
gesture  as  he  went  on:  "They  do  not  seem  to  read 
them  here,  Mr.  Harkless,  although  Mr.  Martin 
assures  me  that  he  carefully  peruses  my  article  on 
Chaldean  decoration  whenever  he  rearranges  his 
exhibition  windows,  and  I  bear  in  mind  the  clipping 
from  a  Rouen  paper  you  showed  me,  commenting 
generously  upon  the  scholarship  of  the  'Herald.' 
But  for  fifteen  years  I  have  tried  to  improve  the  art 
feeling  in  Plattville,  and  I  may  say  that  I  have 
worked  in  the  face  of  no  small  discouragement.  In 
fact,"  (there  was  a  slight  quaver  in  Fisbee's  voice), 
"I  cannot  remember  that  I  ever  received  the  slightest 
word  or  token  of  encouragement  till  you  came,  Mr. 
Harkless.  Since  then  I  have  labored  with  refreshed 
energy;  still,  I  cannot  claim  that  our  architecture 
shows  a  change  for  the  better,  and  I  fear  the  engrav 
ings  upon  the  walls  of  our  people  exhibit  no  great 
progress  in  selection.  And — I — I  wish  also  to  say, 
Mr.  Harkless,  if  you  find  it  necessary  to  make  some 
alterations  in  the  form  of  my  reportorial  items  for 
Saturday's  issue,  I  shall  perfectly  understand, 
remembering  your  explanation  that  journalism 
demands  it.  Good-evening,  Mr.  Harkless.  Good- 


78     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

evening,  Mr.  Todd,"  He  plodded  on  a  few  paces, 
then  turned,  irresolutely. 

"What  is  it,  Fisbee?"  asked  Harkless. 

Fisbee  stood  for  a  moment,  as  though  about  to 
speak,  then  he  smiled  faintly,  shook  his  head,  and 
went  his  way.  Harkless  stared  after  him,  surprised. 
It  suddenly  struck  him,  with  a  feeling  of  irritation, 
that  if  Fisbee  had  spoken  it  would  have  been  to 
advise  him  to  call  at  Judge  Briscoe's.  He  laughed 
impatiently  at  the  notion,  and,  drawing  his  pencil 
and  a  pad  from  his  pocket,  proceeded  to  injure 
his  eyes  in  the  waning  twilight  by  the  editorial 
perusal  of  the  items  his  staff  had  just  left  in  his 
hands.  When  published,  the  manuscript  came  under 
a  flaring  heading,  bequeathed  by  Harkless 's  prede 
cessor  in  the  chair  of  the  "Herald,"  and  the  altera 
tion  of  which  he  felt  Plattville  would  refuse  to 
sanction:  "Happenings  of  Our  City."  Below, 
was  printed  in  smaller  type:  "Improvements  in 
the  World  of  Business,"  and,  beneath  that,  came 
the  rubric:  "Also,  the  Cradle,  the  Altar,  and  the 
Tomb." 

The  first  of  Fisbee's  items  was  thus  recorded:  "It 
may  be  noted  that  the  new  sign-board  of  Mr.  H. 
Miller  has  been  put  in  place.  We  cannot  but  regret 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     79 

that  Mr.  Miller  did  not  instruct  the  painter  to  con 
fine  himself  to  a  simpler  method  of  lettering." 

"Ah,  Fisbee,"  murmured  the  editor,  reproach 
fully,  "that  new  sign-board  is  almost  the  only  im 
provement  in  the  World  of  Business  Plattville  has 
seen  this  year.  I  wonder  how  many  times  we  have 
used  it  from  the  first,  'It  is  rumored  in  business 
circles  that  Herve  Miller  contemplates' — to  the 
exciting,  'Under  Way,'  and,  'Finishing  Touches.' 
My  poor  White  Knight,  are  five  years  of  training 
wasted  on  you?  Sometimes  you  make  me  fear  it. 
Here  is  Plattville  panting  for  our  story  of  the  hang 
ing  of  the  sign,  and  you  throw  away  the  climax  like 
that!"  He  began  to  write  rapidly,  bending  low  over 
the  pad  in  the  half  darkness.  His  narrative  was  an 
amplification  of  the  interesting  information  (already 
possessed  by  every  inhabitant)  that  Herve  Miller 
had  put  up  a  new  sign.  After  a  paragraph  of  hand 
some  description,  "Herve  is  always  enterprising," 
wrote  the  editor.  "This  is  a  move  in  the  right 
direction.  Herve,  keep  it  up." 

He  glanced  over  the  other  items  meditatively, 
making  alterations  here  and  there.  The  last  two 
Fisbee  had  written  as  follows: 

"There  is  noticeable  in  the  new  (and  somewhat 


80     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

incongruous)  portico  erected  by  Solomon  Tibbs  at 
the  residence  of  Mr.  Henry  Tibbs  Willetts,  an  at 
tempt  at  rococo  decoration  which  cannot  fail  to 
sadden  the  passer-by." 

"Miss  Sherwood  of  Rouen,  whom  Miss  Briscoe 
knew  at  the  Misses  Jennings'  finishing-school  in 
New  York,  is  a  guest  of  Judge  Briscoe's  household." 

Fisbee's  items  were  written  in  ink;  and  there  was  a 
blank  space  beneath  the  last.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
page  something  had  been  scribbled  in  pencil.  Hark- 
less  tried  vainly  to  decipher  it,  but  the  twilight  had 
fallen  too  deep,  and  the  writing  was  too  faint,  so  he 
struck  a  match  and  held  it  close  to  the  paper.  The 
action  betokened  only  a  languid  interest,  but  when 
he  caught  sight  of  the  first  of  the  four  subscribed 
lines  he  sat  up  straight  in  his  chair  with  an  ejacula 
tion.  At  the  bottom  of  Fisbee's  page  was  written  in 
a  dainty,  feminine  hand,  of  a  type  he  had  not  seen  for 
years: 

"  'The  time  has  come,'  the  Walrus  said, 

'To  talk  of  many  things: 
Of  shoes — and  ships — and  sealing-wax — 
And  cabbages — and  kings — '  " 

He  put  the  paper  in  his  pocket,  and  set  off  rapidly 
down  the  village  street. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     81 

At  his  departure  William  Todd  looked  up  quickly; 
then  he  got  upon  his  feet  and  quietly  followed  the 
editor.  In  the  dusk  a  tattered  little  figure  rose  up 
from  the  weeds  across  the  way,  and  stole  noiselessly 
after  William.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his 
waistcoat  unbuttoned  and  loose.  On  the  nearest 
corner  Mr.  Todd  encountered  a  fellow-townsman, 
who  had  been  pacing  up  and  down  in  front  of  a  cot 
tage,  crooning  to  a  protestive  baby  held  in  his  arms. 
He  had  paused  in  his  vigil  to  stare  after  Harkless. 

"Where's  he  bound  for,  William?"  inquired  the 
man  with  the  baby. 

"Briscoes',"  answered  William,  pursuing  his  way. 

"I  reckoned  he  would  be,"  commented  the  other, 
turning  to  his  wife,  who  sat  on  the  doorstep,  "I 
reckoned  so  when  I  see  that  lady  at  the  lecture  last 
night." 

The  woman  rose  to  her  feet.  "Hi,  Bill  Todd!" 
she  said.  "What  you  got  onto  the  back  of  your 
vest?"  William  paused,  put  his  hand  behind  him 
and  encountered  a  paper  pinned  to  the  dangling 
strap  of  his  waistcoat.  The  woman  ran  to  him  and 
unpinned  the  paper.  It  bore  a  writing.  They  took 
it  to  where  the  yellow  lamp-light  shone  through  the 
open  door,  and  read: 


82     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"der  Sir 

"FoLer    harkls   aL   yo   pies    an  gaRd   him   yoR 
best  venagesn  is  closteR,  harkls  not  Got  3  das  to  liv 

"We  come  in  Wite." 

"What  ye  think,  William?"  asked  the  man  with 
the  baby,  anxiously.  But  the  woman  gave  the 
youth  a  sharp  push  with  her  hand.  "They  never 
dast  to  do  it!"  she  cried.  "Never  in  the  world! 
You  hurry,  Bill  Todd.  Don't  you  leave  him  out 
of  your  sight  one  second." 


CHAPTER  V 

AT    THE    PASTURE    BARS:    ELDER-BUSHES    MAY    HAVE 

STINGS 

THE  street  upon  which  the  Palace  Hotel 
fronted  formed  the  south  side  of  the  Square 
and  ran  west  to  the  edge  of  the  town,  where 
it  turned  to  the  south  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or 
more,  then  bent  to  the  west  again.  Some  distance 
from  this  second  turn,  there  stood,  fronting  close  on 
the  road,  a  large  brick  house,  the  most  pretentious 
mansion  in  Carlow  County.  And  yet  it  was  a  home 
like  place,  with  its  red-brick  walls  embowered  hi 
masses  of  cool  Virginia  creeper,  and  a  comfortable 
veranda  crossing  the  broad  front,  while  half  a  hun 
dred  stalwart  sentinels  of  elm  and  beech  and  poplar 
stood  guard  around  it.  The  front  walk  was  bordered 
by  geraniums  and  hollyhocks;  and  honeysuckle 
climbed  the  pillars  of  the  porch.  Behind  the  house 
there  was  a  shady  little  orchard;  and,  back  of  the 

orchard,  an  old-fashioned,  very  fragrant  rose-garden, 

83 


84     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

divided  by  a  long  grape  arbor,  extended  to  the 
shallow  waters  of  a  wandering  creek;  and  on  the 
bank  a  rustic  seat  was  placed,  beneath  the  syca 
mores. 

From  the  first  bend  of  the  road,  where  it  left  the 
town  and  became  (after  some  indecision)  a  country 
highway — called  the  pike — rather  than  a  proud  city 
boulevard,  a  pathway  led  through  the  fields  to  end 
at  some  pasture  bars  opposite  the  brick  house. 

John  Harkless  was  leaning  on  the  pasture  bars. 
The  stars  were  wan,  and  the  full  moon  shone  over 
the  fields.  Meadows  and  woodlands  lay  quiet  under 
the  old,  sweet  marvel  of  a  June  night.  In  the  wide 
monotony  of  the  flat  lands,  there  sometimes  comes  a 
feeling  that  the  whole  earth  is  stretched  out  before 
one.  To-night  it  seemed  to  lie  so,  in  the  pathos  of 
silent  beauty,  all  passive  and  still;  yet  breathing  an 
antique  message,  sad,  mysterious,  reassuring.  But 
there  had  come  a  divine  melody  adrift  on  the  air. 
Through  the  open  windows  it  floated.  Indoors 
some  one  struck  a  peal  of  silver  chords,  like  a  harp 
touched  by  a  lover,  and  a  woman's  voice  was  lifted. 
John  Harkless  leaned  on  the  pasture  bars  and  lis 
ted  with  upraised  head  and  parted  lips. 

"To  thy  chamber  window  roving,  love  hath  led  my  feet." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     85 

The  Lord  sent  manna  to  the  children  of  Israel  in 
the  wilderness.  Harkless  had  been  five  years  in 
Plattville,  and  a  woman's  voice  singing  Schubert's 
serenade  came  to  him  at  last  as  he  stood  by  the 
pasture  bars  of  Jones's  field  and  listened  and  rested 
his  dazzled  eyes  on  the  big,  white  face  of  the 
moon. 

How  long  had  it  been  since  he  had  heard  a  song, 
or  any  discourse  of  music  other  than  that  furnished 
by  the  Plattville  Band — not  that  he  had  not  taste 
for  a  brass  band!  But  music  that  he  loved  always 
gave  him  an  ache  of  delight  and  the  twinge  of 
reminiscences  of  old,  gay  days  gone  forever.  To 
night  his  memory  leaped  to  the  last  day  of  a  June 
gone  seven  years;  to  a  morning  when  the  little 
estuary  waves  twinkled  in  the  bright  sun  about  the 
boat  in  which  he  sat,  the  trim  launch  that  brought  a 
cheery  party  ashore  from  their  schooner  to  the 
Casino  landing  at  Winter  Harbor,  far  up  on  the 
Maine  coast. 

It  was  the  happiest  of  those  last  irresponsible  days 
before  he  struck  into  his  work  in  the  world  and 
became  a  failure.  To-night  he  saw  the  picture  as 
plainly  as  if  it  were  yesterday;  no  reminiscence  had 
risen  so  keenly  before  his  eyes  for  years:  pretty  Mrs. 


86     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Van  Skuyt  sitting  beside  him — pretty  Mrs.  Van 
Skuyt  and  her  roses!  What  had  become  of  her? 
He  saw  the  crowd  of  friends  waiting  on  the  pier  for 
their  arrival,  and  the  dozen  or  so  emblazoned  class 
mates  (it  was  in  the  time  of  brilliant  flannels)  who 
suddenly  sent  up  a  volley  of  college  cheers  in  his 
honor — how  plainly  the  dear,  old,  young  faces  rose 
up  before  him  to-night,  the  men  from  whose  lives  he 
had  slipped!  Dearest  and  jolliest  of  the  faces  was 
that  of  Tom  Meredith,  clubmate,  classmate,  his 
closest  friend,  the  thin,  red-headed  third  baseman; 
he  could  see  Tom's  mouth  opened  at  least  a  yard, 
it  seemed,  such  was  his  frantic  vociferousness.  Again 
and  again  the  cheers  rang  out,  "Harkless!  Harkless!" 
on  the  end  of  them.  In  those  days  everybody  (par 
ticularly  his  classmates)  thought  he  would  be  minis 
ter  to  England  in  a  few  years,  and  the  orchestra  on 
the  Casino  porch  was  playing  "The  Conquering 
Hero,"  in  his  honor,  and  at  the  behest  of  Tom  Mere 
dith,  he  knew. 

There  were  other  pretty  ladies  besides  Mrs.  Van 
Skuyt  in  the  launch-load  from  the  yacht,  but,  as 
they  touched  the  pier,  pretty  girls,  or  pretty  women, 
or  jovial  gentlemen,  all  were  overlooked  in  the  wild 
scramble  the  college  men  made  for  their  hero.  They 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     87 

haled  him  forth,  set  him  on  high,  bore  him  on  their 
shoulders,  shouting  "Skal  to  the  Viking!"  and  car 
ried  him  up  the  wooded  bluff  to  the  Casino.  He 
heard  Mrs.  Van  Skuyt  say,  "Oh,  we're  used  to  it; 
we've  put  in  at  several  other  places  where  he  had 
friends!"  He  struggled  manfully  to  be  set  down, 
but  his  triumphal  procession  swept  on.  He  heard 
bystanders  telling  each  other,  "It's  that  young 
Harkless,  'the  Great  Harkless,'  they're  all  so  mad 
about";  and  while  it  pleased  him  a  little  to  hear 
such  things,  they  always  made  him  laugh  a  great 
deal.  He  had  never  understood  his  popularity:  he 
had  been  chief  editor  of  the  university  daily,  and  he 
had  done  a  little  in  athletics,  and  the  rest  of  his 
distinction  lay  in  college  offices  his  mates  had  heaped 
upon  him  without  his  being  able  to  comprehend 
why  they  did  it.  And  yet,  somehow,  and  in  spite 
of  himself,  they  had  convinced  him  that  the  world 
was  his  oyster;  that  it  would  open  for  him  at  a 
touch.  He  could  not  help  seeing  how  the  Freshmen 
looked  at  him,  how  the  Sophomores  jumped  off  the 
narrow  campus  walks  to  let  him  pass;  he  could  not 
help  knowing  that  he  was  the  great  man  of  his 
time,  so  that  "The  Great  Harkless"  came  to  be  one 
of  the  traditions  of  the  university.  He  remembered 


88     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

the  wild  progress  they  made  for  him  up  the  slope 
that  morning  at  Winter  Harbor,  how  the  people 
looked  on,  and  laughed,  and  clapped  their  hands. 
But  at  the  veranda  edge  he  had  noticed  a  little  form 
disappearing  around  a  corner  of  the  building;  a 
young  girl  running  away  as  fast  as  she  could. 

"See  there!"  he  said,  as  the  tribe  set  him  down, 
"You  have  frightened  the  populace."  And  Tom 
Meredith  stopped  shouting  long  enough  to  answer, 
"It's  my  little  cousin,  overcome  with  emotion.  She's 
been  counting  the  hours  till  you  came — been  hearing 
of  you  from  me  and  others  for  a  good  while;  and 
hasn't  been  able  to  talk  or  think  of  anything  else. 
She's  only  fifteen,  and  the  crucial  moment  is  too 
much  for  her — the  Great  Harkless  has  arrived,  and 
she  has  fled." 

He  remembered  other  incidents  of  his  greatness, 
of  the  glory  that  now  struck  him  as  rarely  comical; 
he  hoped  he  hadn't  taken  it  too  seriously  then,  in  the 
flush  of  his  youth.  Maybe,  after  all,  he  had  been 
a  big-headed  boy,  but  he  must  have  bottled  up  his 
conceit  tightly  enough,  or  the  other  boys  would 
have  detected  it  and  abhorred  him.  He  was  in 
clined  to  believe  that  he  had  not  been  very  much 
set  up  by  the  pomp  they  made  for  him.  At  all 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     89 

events,  that  day  at  Winter  Harbor  had  been  beauti 
ful,  full  of  the  laughter  of  friends  and  music;  for 
there  was  a  musicale  at  the  Casino  in  the  after 
noon. 

But  the  present  hour  grew  on  him  as  he  leaned  on 
the  pasture  bars,  and  suddenly  his  memories  sped; 
and  the  voice  that  was  singing  Schubert's  serenade 
across  the  way  touched  him  with  the  urgent,  per 
sonal  appeal  that  a  present  beauty  always  had  for 
him.  It  was  a  soprano;  and  without  tremolo,  yet 
came  to  his  ear  with  a  certain  tremulous  sweetness; 
it  was  soft  and  slender,  but  the  listener  knew  it  could 
be  lifted  with  fullness  and  power  if  the  singer  would. 
It  spoke  only  of  the  song,  yet  the  listener  thought 
of  the  singer.  Under  the  moon  thoughts  run  into 
dreams,  and  he  dreamed  that  the  owner  of  the  voice, 
she  who  quoted  "The  Walrus  and  the  Carpenter" 
on  Fisbee's  notes,  was  one  to  laugh  with  you  and 
weep  with  you;  yet  her  laughter  would  be  tempered 
with  sorrow,  and  her  tears  with  laughter. 

When  the  song  was  -ended,  he  struck  the  rail  he 
leaned  upon  a  sharp  blow  with  his  open  hand. 
There  swept  over  him  a  feeling  that  he  had  stood 
precisely  where  he  stood  now,  on  such  a  night,  a 
thousand  years  ago,  had  heard  that  voice  and  that 


90     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

song,  had  listened  and  been  moved  by  the  song,  and 
the  night,  just  as  he  was  moved  now. 

He  had  long  known  himself  for  a  sentimentalist; 
he  had  almost  given  up  trying  to  cure  himself.  And 
he  knew  himself  for  a  born  lover;  he  had  always 
been  in  love  with  some  one.  In  his  earlier  youth 
his  affections  had  been  so  constantly  inconstant  that 
he  finally  came  to  settle  with  his  self-respect  by  rec 
ognizing  in  himself  a  fine  constancy  that  worshipped 
one  woman  always — it  was  only  the  shifting  image 
of  her  that  changed!  Somewhere  (he  dreamed, 
whimsically  indulgent  of  the  fancy;  yet  mocking 
himself  for  it)  there  was  a  girl  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  who  waited  till  he  should  come.  She  was 
Everything.  Until  he  found  her,  he  could  not  help 
adoring  others  who  possessed  little  pieces  and  sug 
gestions  of  her — her  brilliancy,  her  courage,  her 
short  upper  lip,  "like  a  curled  roseleaf,"  or  her  dear 
voice,  or  her  pure  profile.  He  had  no  recollection  of 
any  lady  who  had  quite  her  eyes. 

He  had  never  passed  a  lovely  stranger  on  the 
street,  in  the  old  days,  without  a  thrill  of  delight  and 
warmth.  If  he  never  saw  her  again,  and  the  vision 
only  lasted  the  time  it  takes  a  lady  to  cross  the  side 
walk  from  a  shop  door  to  a  carriage,  he  was  always 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     91 

a  little  in  love  with  her,  because  she  bore  about  her, 
somewhere,  as  did  every  pretty  girl  he  ever  saw,  a 
suggestion  of  the  far-away  divinity.  One  does  not 
pass  lovely  strangers  in  the  streets  of  Plattville. 
Miss  Briscoe  was  pretty,  but  not  at  all  in  the  way 
that  Harkless  dreamed.  For  five  years  the  lover  in 
him  that  had  loved  so  often  had  been  starved  of  all 
but  dreams.  Only  at  twilight  and  dusk  in  the  sum 
mer,  when,  strolling,  he  caught  sight  of  a  woman's 
skirt,  far  up  the  village  street — half-outlined  in  the 
darkness  under  the  cathedral  arch  of  meeting 
branches — this  romancer  of  petticoats  could  sigh  a 
true  lover's  sigh,  and,  if  he  kept  enough  distance 
between,  fly  a  yearning  fancy  that  his  lady  wandered 
there. 

Ever  since  his  university  days  the  image  of  her 
had  been  growing  more  and  more  distinct.  He  had 
completely  settled  his  mind  as  to  her  appearance 
and  her  voice.  She  was  tall,  almost  too  tall,  he  was 
sure  of  that;  and  out  of  his  consciousness  there  had 
grown  a  sweet  and  vivacious  young  face  that  he 
knew  was  hers.  Her  hair  was  light-brown  with  gold 
lustres  (he  reveled  in  the  gold  lustres,  on  the  proper 
theory  that  when  your  fancy  is  painting  a  picture 
you  may  as  well  go  in  for  the  whole  thing  and  make 


92     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

it  sumptuous),  and  her  eyes  were  gray.  They  were 
very  earnest,  and  yet  they  sparkled  and  laughed  to 
him  companionably;  and  sometimes  he  had  smiled 
back  upon  her.  The  Undine  danced  before  him 
through  the  lonely  years,  on  fair  nights  in  his  walks, 
and  came  to  sit  by  his  fire  on  winter  evenings  when 
he  stared  alone  at  the  embers. 

And  to-night,  here  in  Plattville,  he  heard  a  voice 
he  had  waited  for  long,  one  that  his  fickle  memory 
told  him  he  had  never  heard  before.  But,  listen 
ing,  he  knew  better — he  had  heard  it  long  ago, 
though  when  and  how,  he  did  not  know,  as  rich  and 
true,  and  ineffably  tender  as  now.  He  threw  a  sop 
to  his  common  sense.  "Miss  Sherwood  is  a  little 
thing"  (the  image  was  so  surely  tall)  "with  a  bumpy 
forehead  and  spectacles,"  he  said  to  himself,  "or  else 
a  provincial  young  lady  with  big  eyes  to  pose  at 
you."  Then  he  felt  the  ridiculousness  of  looking 
after  his  common  sense  on  a  moonlight  night  in 
June;  also,  he  knew  that  he  lied. 

The  song  had  ceased,  but  the  musician  lingered, 
and  the  keys  were  touched  to  plaintive  harmonies 
new  to  him.  He  had  come  to  Plattville  before 
"Cavalleria  Rusticana"  was  sung  at  Rome,  and  now, 
entranced,  he  heard  the  "Intermezzo"  for  the  first 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     93 

time.  Listening  to  this,  he  feared  to  move  lest  he 
should  wake  from  a  summer-night's  dream. 

A  ragged  little  shadow  flitted  down  the  path  be 
hind  him,  and  from  a  solitary  apple-tree,  standing 
like  a  lonely  ghost  in  the  middle  of  the  field,  came 
the  woo  of  a  screech  owl — twice.  It  was  answered— 
twice — from  a  clump  of  elder-bushes  that  grew  in  a 
fence-corner  fifty  yards  west  of  the  pasture  bars. 
Then  the  barrel  of  a  squirrel  rifle  issued,  lifted  out  of 
the  white  elder-blossoms,  and  lay  along  the  fence. 
The  music  in  the  house  across  the  way  ceased,  and 
Harkless  saw  two  white  dresses  come  out  through 
the  long  parlor  windows  to  the  veranda. 

"It  will  be  cooler  out  here,"  came  the  voice  of  the 
singer  clearly  through  the  quiet.  "What  a  night!" 

John  vaulted  the  bars  and  started  to  cross  the 
road.  They  saw  him  from  the  veranda,  and  Miss 
Briscoe  called  to  him  in  welcome.  As  his  tall  figure 
stood  out  plainly  in  the  bright  light  against  the 
white  dust,  a  streak  of  fire  leaped  from  the  elder- 
blossoms  and  there  rang  out  the  sharp  report  of  a 
rifle.  There  were  two  screams  from  the  veranda. 
One  white  figure  ran  into  the  house.  The  other,  a 
little  one  with  a  gauzy  wrap  streaming  behind,  came 
flying  out  into  the  moonlight — straight  to  Harkless. 


94     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

There  was  a  second  report;  the  rifle-shot  was  an 
swered  by  a  revolver.  William  Todd  had  risen  up, 
apparently  from  nowhere,  and,  kneeling  by  the  pas 
ture  bars,  fired  at  the  flash  of  the  rifle. 

"Jump  fer  the  shadder,  Mr.  Harkless,"  he  shouted; 
"he's  in  them  elders,"  and  then:  "Fer  God's  sake, 
come  back!" 

Empty-handed  as  he  was,  the  editor  dashed  for 
the  treacherous  elder-bush  as  fast  as  his  long  legs 
could  carry  him;  but,  before  he  had  taken  six  strides, 
a  hand  clutched  his  sleeve,  and  a  girl's  voice  qua 
vered  from  close  behind  him: 

"Don't  run  like  that,  Mr.  Harkless;  I  can't  keep 
up!"  He  wheeled  about,  and  confronted  a  vision,  a 
dainty  little  figure  about  five  feet  high,  a  flushed  and 
lovely  face,  hair  and  draperies  disarranged  and  fly 
ing.  He  stamped  his  foot  with  rage.  "Get  back  in 
the  house!"  he  cried. 

"You  mustn't  go,"  she  panted.  "It's  the  only 
way  to  stop  you." 

"Go  back  to  the  house!"  he  shouted,  savagely. 

"Will  you  come?" 

"Fer  God's  sake,"  cried  William  Todd,  "come 
back!  Keep  out  of  the  road."  He  was  emptying 
his  revolver  at  the  clump  of  elder,  the  uproar  of  his 


"7  (ilirayx  thought  you  irere  /a//" 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     95 

firing  blasting  the  night.  Some  one  screamed  from 
the  house: 

"Helen!     Helen!" 

John  seized  the  girl's  wrists  roughly;  her  gray 
eyes  flashed  into  his  defiantly.  "Will  you  go?"  he 
roared. 

"No!" 

He  dropped  her  wrists,  caught  her  up  in  his  arms 
as  if  she  had  been  a  kitten,  and  leaped  into  the 
shadow  of  the  trees  that  leaned  over  the  road  from 
the  yard.  The  rifle  rang  out  again,  and  the  little 
ball  whistled  venomously  overhead.  Harkless  ran 
along  the  fence  and  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

A  loose  strand  of  the  girl's  hair  blew  across  his 
cheek,  and  in  the  moon  her  head  shone  with  gold. 
She  had  light-brown  hair  and  gray  eyes  and  a  short 
upper  lip  like  a  curled  rose-leaf.  He  set  her  down 
on  the  veranda  steps.  Both  of  them  laughed  wildly. 

"But  you  came  with  me!"  she  gasped  trium 
phantly. 

"I  always  thought  you  were  tall,"  he  answered; 
and  there  was  afterward  a  time  when  he  had  to 
agree  that  this  was  a  somewhat  vague  reply. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JUNE 

JUDGE  BRISCOE  smiled  grimly  and  leaned 
on  his  shot-gun  in  the  moonlight  by  the 
veranda.  He  and  William  Todd  had  been 
trampling  down  the  elder-bushes,  and  returning  to 
the  house,  found  Minnie  alone  on  the  porch.  "Safe?" 
he  said  to  his  daughter,  who  turned  an  anxious 
face  upon  him.  "They'll  be  safe  enough  now,  and 
in  our  garden." 

"Maybe  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  them  go,"  she 
returned,  nervously. 

"Pooh!  They're  all  right;  that  scalawag's  half 
way  to  Six-Cross-Roads  by  this  time,  isn't  he, 
William?" 

"He  tuck  up  the  fence  like  a  scared  rabbit,"  Mr. 
Todd  responded,  looking  into  his  hat  to  avoid  meet 
ing  the  eyes  of  the  lady.  "I  didn't  have  no  call  to 
f oiler,  and  he  knowed  how  to  run,  I  reckon.  Time 

Mr.   Harkless   come   out   the   yard   again,   he   was 

96 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     97 

'  near  out  o'  sight,  and  we  see  him  take  across  the 
road  to  the  wedge- woods,  near  half-a-mile  up. 
Somebody  else  with  him  then — looked  like  a  kid. 
Must  'a'  cut  acrost  the  field  to  join  him.  They're 
fur  enough  towards  home  by  this." 

"Did  Miss  Helen  shake  hands  with  you  four  or 
five  times?"  asked  Briscoe,  chuckling. 

"No.     Why?" 

"Because  Harkless  did.  My  hand  aches,  and  I 
guess  William's  does,  too;  he  nearly  shook  our  arms 
off  when  we  told  him  he'd  been  a  fool.  Seemed  to 
do  him  good.  I  told  him  he  ought  to  hire  some 
body  to  take  a  shot  at  him  every  morning  before 
breakfast — not  that  it's  any  joking  matter,"  the  old 
gentleman  finished,  thoughtfully. 

"I  should  say  not,"  said  William,  with  a  deep 
frown  and  a  jerk  of  his  head  toward  the  rear  of  the 
house.  "He  jokes  about  it  enough.  Wouldn't  even 
promise  to  carry  a  gun  after  this.  Said  he  wouldn't 
know  how  to  use  it.  Never  shot  one  off  since  he 
was  a  boy,  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  This  is  the  third 
time  he's  be'n  shot  at  this  year,  but  he  says  the 
others  was  at  a — a — what'd  he  call  it?" 

"  'A  merely  complimentary  range,'  "  Briscoe  sup 
plied.  He  handed  William  a  cigar  and  bit  the  end 


98     THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

off  another  himself.  "Minnie,  you  better  go  in  the 
house  and  read,  I  expect — unless  you  want  to  go 
down  the  creek  and  join  those  folks." 

"Me!"  she  responded.  "I  know  when  to  stay 
away,  I  guess.  Do  go  and  put  that  terrible  gun  up." 

"No,"  said  Briscoe,  lighting  his  cigar,  deliber 
ately.  "It's  all  safe;  there's  no  question  of  that; 
but  maybe  William  and  I  better  go  out  and  take 
a  smoke  in  the  orchard  as  long  as  they  stay  down 
at  the  creek." 

In  the  garden,  shafts  of  white  light  pierced  the 
bordering  trees  and  fell  where  June  roses  lifted  their 
heads  to  breathe  the  mild  night  breeze,  and  here, 
through  summer  spells,  the  editor  of  the  "Herald" 
and  the  lady  who  had  run  to  him  at  the  pasture  bars 
strolled  down  a  path  trembling  with  shadows  to 
where  the  shallow  creek  tinkled  over  the  pebbles. 
They  walked  slowly,  with  an  air  of  being  well- 
accustomed  friends  and  comrades,  and  for  some 
reason  it  did  not  strike  either  of  them  as  unnatural 
or  extraordinary.  They  came  to  a  bench  on  the 
bank,  and  he  made  a  great  fuss  dusting  the  seat 
for  her  with  his  black  slouch  hat.  Then  he  regretted 
the  hat — it  was  a  shabby  old  hat  of  a  Carlow  County 
fashion. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA     99 

It  was  a  long  bench,  and  he  seated  himself  rather 
remotely  toward  the  end  opposite  her,  suddenly 
realizing  that  he  had  walked  very  close  to  her,  com 
ing  down  the  narrow  garden  path.  Neither  knew 
that  neither  had  spoken  since  they  left  the  veranda: 
and  it  had  taken  them  a  long  time  to  come  through 
the  little  orchard  and  the  garden.  She  rested  her 
chin  on  her  hand,  leaning  forward  and  looking 
steadily  at  the  creek.  Her  laughter  had  quite  gone; 
her  attitude  seemed  a  little  wistful  and  a  little  sad. 
He  noted  that  her  hair  curled  over  her  brow  in  a 
way  he  had  not  pictured  in  the  lady  of  his  dreams; 
this  was  so  much  lovelier.  He  did  not  care  for  tall 
girls;  he  had  not  cared  for  them  for  almost  half  an 
hour.  It  was  so  much  more  beautiful  to  be  dainty 
and  small  and  piquant.  He  had  no  notion  that  he 
was  sighing  in  a  way  that  would  have  put  a  furnace 
to  shame,  but  he  turned  his  eyes  from  her  because 
he  feared  that  if  he  looked  longer  he  might  blurt 
out  some  speech  about  her  beauty.  His  glance 
rested  on  the  bank;  but  its  diameter  included  the 
edge  of  her  white  skirt  and  the  tip  of  a  little,  white, 
high-heeled  slipper  that  peeped  out  beneath  it;  and 
he  had  to  look  away  from  that,  too,  to  keep  from 
felling  her  that  he  meant  to  advocate  a  law  com- 


100  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

pelling  all  women  to  wear  crisp,  white  gowns  and 
white  slippers  on  moonlight  nights. 

She  picked  a  long  spear  of  grass  from  the  turf 
before  her,  twisted  it  absently  in  her  fingers,  then 
turned  to  him  slowly.  Her  lips  parted  as  if  to 
speak.  Then  she  turned  away  again.  The  action 
was  so  odd,  and  somehow,  as  she  did  it,  so  ador 
able,  and  the  preserved  silence  was  such  a 
bond  between  them,  that  for  his  life  he  could 
not  have  helped  moving  half-way  up  the  bench 
toward  her. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked;  and  he  spoke  in  a  whis 
per  he  might  have  used  at  the  bedside  of  a  dying 
friend.  He  would  not  have  laughed  if  he  had 
known  he  did  so.  She  twisted  the  spear  of  grass 
into  a  little  ball  and  threw  it  at  a  stone  in  the  water 
before  she  answered. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Harkless,  you  and  I  haven't 
'met,'  have  we?  Didn't  we  forget  to  be  presented 
to  each  other?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Sherwood.  In  the  per 
turbation  of  comedy  I  forgot." 

"It  was  melodrama,  wasn't  it?"  she  said.  He 
laughed,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"Comedy,"  he  answered,  "except  your  part  of  it, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   101 

which  you  shouldn't  have  done.  It  was  not  ar 
ranged  in  honor  of  Visiting  ladies.'  But  you  mustn't 
think  me  a  comedian.  Truly,  I  didn't  plan  it. 
My  friend  from  Six-Cross-Roads  must  be  given 
the  credit  of  devising  the  scene — though  you 
divined  it!" 

"It  was  a  little  too  picturesque,  I  think.  I  know 
about  Six-Cross-Roads.  Please  tell  me  what  you 
mean  to  do." 

"Nothing.     What  should  I?" 

"You  mean  that  you  will  keep  on  letting  them 
shoot  at  you,  until  they— until  you —  She  struck 
the  bench  angrily  with  her  hand. 

"There's  no  summer  theatre  in  Six-Cross-Roads; 
there's  not  even  a  church.  Why  shouldn't  they?" 
he  asked  gravely.  "During  the  long  and  tedious 
evenings  it  cheers  the  poor  Cross-Roader's  soul  to 
drop  over  here  and  take  a  shot  at  me.  It  whiles 
away  dull  care  for  him,  and  he  has  the  additional 
exercise  of  running  all  the  way  home." 

"Ah!"  she  cried  indignantly,  "they  told  me  you 
always  answered  like  this!" 

"Well,  you  see  the  Cross-Roads  efforts  have 
proved  so  purely  hygienic  for  me.  As  a  patriot  I 
have  sometimes  felt  extreme  mortification  that  such 


102  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

bad  marksmanship  should  exist  in  the  county,  but 
I  console  myself  with  the  thought  that  their  best 
shots  are  unhappily  in  the  penitentiary." 

"There  are  many  left.  Can't  you  understand  that 
they  will  organize  again  and  come  in  a  body,  as  they 
did  before  you  broke  them  up?  And  then,  if  they 
come  on  a  night  when  they  know  you  are  wander 
ing  out  of  town — 

"You  have  not  the  advantage  of  an  intimate  study 
of  the  most  exclusive  people  of  the  Cross-Roads, 
Miss  Sherwood.  There  are  about  twenty  gentle 
men  who  remain  in  that  neighborhood  while  their 
relatives  sojourn  under  discipline.  If  you  had  the 
entretf  over  there,  you  would  understand  that  these 
twenty  could  not  gather  themselves  into  a  com 
pany  and  march  the  seven  miles  without  physical 
debate  in  the  ranks,  They  are  not  precisely  amiable 
people,  even  amongst  themselves.  They  would 
quarrel  and  shoot  each  other  to  pieces  long  before 
they  got  here." 

"But  they  worked  in  a  company  once." 

"Never  for  seven  miles.  Four  miles  was  their 
radius.  Five  would  see  them  all  dead." 

She  struck  the  bench  again.  "Oh,  you  laugh  at 
me!  You  make  a  joke  of  your  own  life  and  death, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   103 

and  laugh  at  everything!  Have  five  years  of  Platt- 
ville  taught  you  to  do  that?" 

"I  laugh  only  at  taking  the  poor  Cross-Roaders 
too  seriously.  I  don't  laugh  at  your  running  into 
fire  to  help  a  fellow-mortal." 

"I  knew  there  wasn't  any  risk.  I  knew  he  had 
to  stop  to  load  before  he  shot  again." 

"He  did  shoot  again.  If  I  had  known  you  before 
to-night — I —  His  tone  changed  and  he  spoke 
gravely.  "I  am  at  your  feet  in  worship  of  your 
philanthropy.  It's  so  much  finer  to  risk  your  life 
for  a  stranger  than  for  a  friend." 

"That  is  rather  a  man's  point  of  view,  isn't  it?"  j 

"You  risked  yours  for  a  man  you  had  never  seen 
before." 

"Oh,  no!  I  saw  you  at  the  lecture;  I  heard  you 
introduce  the  Honorable  Mr.  Hallo  way." 

"Then  I  don't  understand  your  wishing  to 
save  me." 

She  smiled  unwillingly,'  and  turned  her  gray  eyes 
upon  him  with  troubled  sunniness,  and,  under  the 
kindness  of  her  regard,  he  set  a  watch  upon  his 
lips,  though  he  knew  it  might  not  avail  him.  He 
had  driveled  along  respectably  so  far,  he  thought; 
but  he  had  the  sentimental  longings  of  years,  starved 


104  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

of  expression,  culminating  in  his  heart.  She  con 
tinued  to  look  at  him,  wistfully,  searchingly,  gently. 
Then  her  eyes  traveled  over  his  big  frame  from,  his 
shoes  (a  patch  of  moonlight  fell  on  them;  they  were 
dusty;  he  drew  them  under  the  bench  with  a  shud 
der)  to  his  broad  shoulders  (he  shook  the  stoop  out 
of  them).  She  stretched  her  small  hands  toward 
him  in  contrast,  and  broke  into  the  most  delicious 
low  laughter  in  the  world.  At  this  sound  he  knew 
the  watch  on  his  lips  was  worthless.  It  was  a  ques 
tion  of  minutes  till  he  should  present  himself  to 
her  eyes  as  a  sentimental  and  susceptible  imbecile. 
He  knew  it.  He  was  in  wild  spirits. 

"Could  you  realize  that  one  of  your  dangers 
might  be  a  shaking?"  she  cried.  "Is  your  serious 
ness  a  lost  art?"  Her  laughter  ceased  suddenly. 
"Ah,  no.  I  understand.  Thiers  said  the  French 
laugh  always,  in  order  not  to  weep.  I  haven't 
lived  here  five  years.  I  should  laugh  too,  if  I  were 
you." 

"Look  at  the  moon,"  he  responded.  "We  Platt- 
villains  own  that  with  the  best  of  metropolitans,  and, 
for  my  part,  I  see  more  of  it  here.  You  do  not 
appreciate  us.  We  have  large  landscapes  in  the 
heart  of  the  city,  and  what  other  capital  possesses 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   105 

advantages  like  that?  Next  winter  the  railway 
station  is  to  have  a  new  stove  for  the  waiting-room. 
Heaven  itself  is  one  of  our  suburbs — it  is  so  close 
that  all  one  has  to  do  is  to  die.  You  insist  upon  my 
being  French,  you  see,  and  I  know  you  are  fond  of 
nonsense.  How  did  you  happen  to  put  'The  Walrus 
and  the  Carpenter'  at  the  bottom  of  a  page  of 
Fisbee's  notes?" 

"Was  it?     How  were  you  sure  it  was  I?" 

"In  Carlow  County!" 

"He  might  have  written  it  himself." 

"Fisbee  has  never  in  his  life  read  anything  lighter 
than  cuneiform  inscriptions." 

"Miss  Briscoe " 

"She  doesn't  read  Lewis  Carroll;  and  it  was  not 
her  hand.  What  made  you  write  it  on  Fisbee's 
manuscript?" 

"He  was  with  us  this  afternoon,  and  I  teased  him 
a  little  about  your  heading.  'Business  and  the 
Cradle,  the  Altar,  and  the  Tomb,'  isn't  it?  And  he 
said  it  had  always  troubled  him,  but  that  you 
thought  it  good.  So  do  I.  He  asked  me  if  I  could 
think  of  anything  that  you  might  like  better,  to 
put  in  place  of  it,  and  I  wrote,  'The  time  has  come,' 
because  it  was  the  only  thing  I  could  think  of  that 


106  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

was  as  appropriate  and  as  fetching  as  your  head 
lines.  He  was  perfectly  dear  about  it.  He  was 
so  serious;  he  said  he  feared  it  wouldn't  be  accept 
able.  I  didn't  notice  that  the  paper  he  handed  me 
to  WTite  on  was  part  of  his  notes,  nor  did  he,  I 
think.  Afterward,  he  put  it  back  in  his  pocket. 
It  wasn't  a  message." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  he  did  not  notice.  He  is  very 
wise.  Do  you  know,  somehow,  I  have  the  impres 
sion  that  the  old  fellow  wanted  me  to  meet  you." 

'"How  dear  and  good  of  him!"  She  spoke  ear 
nestly,  and  her  face  was  suffused  with  a  warm 
light.  There  was  no  doubt  about  her  meaning 
what  she  said. 

"It  was,"  John  answered,  unsteadily.  "He  knew 
how  great  was  my  need  of  a  few  moments'  com- 
panionableness  with — with— 

"No,"  she  interrupted.  "I  meant  dear  and  good 
to  me,  because  I  think  he  was  thinking  of  me,  and 
it  was  for  my  sake  he  wanted  us  to  meet." 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  convince  a  woman, 
if  she  had  overheard  this  speech,  that  Miss  Sher 
wood's  humility  was  not  the  calculated  affectation 
of  a  coquette.  Sometimes  a  man's  unsuspicion  is 
wiser,  and  Harkless  knew  that  she  was  not  flirting 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   107 

with  him.    In  addition,  he  was  not  a  fatuous  man; 
he   did   not   extend   the   implication   of   her   words 
nearly  so  far  as  she  would  have  had  him 
"But  I  had  met  you,"  said  he,  "long  ago." 
"What!"  she  cried,  and  her  eyes  danced.     "You 
actually  remember?" 

"Yes;  do  you?"  he  answered.  "I  stood  in 
Jones's  field  and  heard  you  singing,  and  I  remem 
bered.  It  was  a  long  time  since  I  had  heard  you 
sing: 

"  'I  was  a  ruffler  of  Flanders, 

And  fought  for  a  florin's  hire. 
You  were  the  dame  of  my  captain 
And  sang  to  my  heart's  desire.' 

"But  that  is  the  balladist's  notion.  The  truth  is 
that  you  were  a  lady  at  the  Court  of  Clovis,  and  I 
was  a  heathen  captive.  I  heard  you  sing  a  Christian 
hymn — and  asked  for  baptism."  By  a  great  effort 
he  managed  to  look  as  if  he  did  not  mean  it. 

But  she  did  not  seem  over-pleased  with  kis  fancy, 
for,  the  surprise  fading  from  her  face,  "Oh,  that 
was  the  way  you  remembered!"  she  said. 

"Perhaps  it  was  not  that  way  alone.  You  won't 
despise  me  for  being  mawkish  to-night?"  he  asked. 
"I  haven't  had  the  chance  for  so  long." 


108  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

The  night  air  wrapped  them  warmly,  and  the 
balm  of  the  little  breezes  that  stirred  the  foliage 

around  them  was  the  smell  of  damask  roses  from 

i 

the  garden.  The  creek  tinkled  over  the  pebbles  at 
their  feet,  and  a  drowsy  bird,  half-wakened  by 
the  moon,  crooned  languorously  in  the  sycamores. 
The  girl  looked  out  at  the  flashing  water  through 
downcast  lashes.  "Is  it  because  it  is  so  transient 
that  beauty  is  pathetic?"  she  said;  "because  we 
can  never  come  back  to  it  in  quite  the  same  way? 
I  am  a  sentimental  girl.  If  you  are  born  so,  it  is 
never  entirely  teased  out  of  you,  is  it?  Besides, 
to-night  is  all  a  dream.  It  isn't  real,  you  know. 
You  couldn't  be  mawkish." 

Her  tone  was  gentle  as  a  caress,  and  it  made  him 
tingle  to  his  finger-tips.  "How  do  you  know?"  he 
asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  just  know.  Do  you  think  I'm  very  'bold  and 
forward'?"  she  said,  dreamily. 

"It  was  your  song  I  wanted  to  be  sentimental 
about.  I  am  like  one  'who  through  long  days  of 
toil' — only  that  doesn't  quite  apply — 'and  nights 
devoid  of  ease' — but  I  can't  claim  that  one  doesn't 
sleep  well  here;  it  is  Plattville's  specialty — like  one 
who 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   109 

"  'Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of    wonderful    melodies.'  " 

"Those  blessed  old  lines!"  she  said.  "Once  a 
thing  is  music  or  poetry,  all  the  hand-organs  and 
elocutionists  in  the  world  cannot  ruin  it,  can  they? 
Yes;  to  live  here,  out  of  the  world,  giving  up  the 
world,  doing  good  and  working  for  others,  working 
for  a  community  as  you  do — 

"I  am  not  quite  shameless,"  he  interrupted, 
smilingly.  "I  was  given  a  life  sentence  for  incom- 
petency,  and  I've  served  five  years  of  it,  which  have 
been  made  much  happier  than  my  deserts." 

"No,"  she  persisted,  "that  is  your  way  of  talking 
of  yourself;  I  know  you  would  always  'run  yourself 
down,'  if  one  paid  any  attention  to  it.  But  to  give 
up  the  world,  to  drop  out  of  it  without  regret,  to 
come  here  and  do  what  you  have  done,  and  to  live 
the  life  that  must  be  so  desperately  dry  and  dull 
for  a  man  of  your  sort,  and  yet  to  have  the  kind 
of  heart  that  makes  wonderful  melodies  sing  in 
itself — oh!"  she  cried,  "I  say  that  is  fine!" 

"You  do  not  understand,"  he  returned,  sadly, 
wishing,  before  her,  to  be  unmercifully  just  to  him 
self.  "I  came  here  because  I  couldn't  make  a  living 
anywhere  else.  And  the  'wonderful  melodies' — I 


110  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

have  known  you  only  one  evening — and  the  melo 
dies —  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  took  a  few  steps 
toward  the  garden.  "Come,"  he  said.  "Let  me 
take  you  back.  Let  us  go  before  I — "  he  finished 
with  a  helpless  laugh. 

She  stood  by  the  bench,  one  hand  resting  on  it; 
she  stood  all  in  the  tremulant  shadow.  She  moved 
one  step  toward  him,  and  a  single,  long  sliver  of 
light  pierced  the  sycamores  and  fell  upon  her  head. 
He  gasped. 

"What  was  it  about  the  melodies?"  she  said. 

"Nothing!  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you  for 
this  evening  that  you  have  given  me.  I — I  suppose 
you  are  leaving  to-morrow.  No  one  ever  stays  here. 
-I- 

"What  about  the  melodies?" 

He  gave  it  up.  "The  moon  makes  people  in 
sane!"  he  cried. 

"If  that  is  true,"  she  returned,  "then  you  need 
not  be  more  afraid  than  I,  because  'people'  is  plural. 
What  were  you  saying  about — 

"I  had  heard  them — in  my  heart.  When  I  heard 
your  voice  to-night,  I  knew  that  it  was  you  who 
sang  them  there — had  been  singing  them  for  me 
always." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   111 

"So!"  she  cried,  gaily.  "All  that  debate  about 
a  pretty  speech!"  Then,  sinking  before  him  in  a 
deep  courtesy,  "I  am  beholden  to  you,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  think  that  no  man  ever  made  a  little  flat 
tery  for  me  before  to-night?" 

At  the  edge  of  the  orchard,  where  they  could  keep 
an  unseen  watch  on  the  garden  and  the  bank  of  the 
creek,  Judge  Briscoe  and  Mr.  Tpdd  were  ensconced 
under  an  apple-tree,  the  former  still  armed  with  his 
shot-gun.  When  the  two  young  people  got  up  from 
their  bench,  the  two  men  rose  hastily,  and  then 
sauntered  slowly  toward  them.  When  they  met, 
Harkless  shook  each  of  them  cordially  by  the  hand, 
without  seeming  to  know  it. 

"WTe  were  coming  to  look  for  you,"  explained  the 
judge.  "William  was  afraid  to  go  home  alone; 
thought  some  one  might  take  him  for  Mr.  Harkless 
and  shoot  him  before  he  got  into  town.  Can  you 
come  out  with  young  Willetts  in  the  morning,  Hark- 
less,"  he  went  on,  "and  go  with  the  ladies  to  see  the 
parade?  And  Minnie  wants  you  to  stay  to  dinner 
and  go  to  the  show  with  them  in  the  afternoon." 

Harkless  seized  his  hand  and  shook  it  fervently, 
and  then  laughed  heartily,  as  he  accepted  the  invi 
tation. 


112  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

At  the  gate,  Miss  Sherwood  extended  her  hand 
to  him  and  said  politely,  and  with  some  flavor  of 
mockery:  "Good-night,  Mr.  Harkless.  I  do  not 
leave  to-morrow.  I  am  very  glad  to  have  met  you." 

"We  are  going  to  keep  her  all  summer  if  we  can," 
said  Minnie,  weaving  her  arm  about  her  friend's 
waist.  "You'll  come  in  the  morning?" 

"Good-night,  Miss  Sherwood,"  he  returned,  hi 
lariously.  "It  has  been  such  a  pleasure  to  meet 
you.  Thank  you  so  much  for  saving  my  life.  It  was 
very  good  of  you  indeed.  Yes,  in  the  morning. 
Good-night — good-night."  He  shook  hands  with 
them  all  again,  including  Mr.  Todd,  who  was  going 
with  him. 

He  laughed  most  of  the  way  home,  and  Mr.  Todd 
walked  at  his  side  in  amazement.  The  Herald 
Building  was  a  decrepit  frame  structure  on  Main 
Street;  it  had  once  been  a  small  warehouse  and 
was  now  sadly  in  need  of  paint.  Closely  adjoining 
it,  in  a  large,  blank-looking  yard,  stood  a  low  brick 
cottage,  over  which  the  second  story  of  the  ware 
house  leaned  in  an  effect  of  tipsy  affection  that  had 
reminded  Harkless,  when  he  first  saw  it,  of  an  old 
Sunday-school  book  wood-cut  of  an  inebriated 
parent  under  convoy  of  a  devoted  child.  The  title 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   113 

to  these  two  buildings  and  the  blank  yard  had  been 
included  in  the  purchase  of  the  "Herald";  and  the 
cottage  was  Harkless's  home. 

There  was  a  light  burning  upstairs  in  the  "Her 
ald"  office.  From  the  street  a  broad,  tumble-down 
stairway  ran  up  on  the  outside  of  the  building  to 
the  second  floor,  and  at  the  stairway  railing  John 
turned  and  shook  his  companion  warmly  by  the 
hand. 

"Good-night,  William,"  he  said.  "It  was  plucky 
of  you  to  join  in  that  muss,  to-night.  I  shan't  for 
get  it." 

"I  jest  happened  to  come  along,"  replied  the 
other,  drowsily;  then,  with  a  portentous  yawn,  he 
asked:  "Ain't  ye  goin'  to  bed?" 

"No;  Parker  wouldn't  allow  it." 

"Well,"  observed  William,  with  another  yawn, 
which  bade  fair  to  expose  the  veritable  soul  of  him, 
"I  d'know  how  ye  stand  it.  It's  closte  on  eleven 
o'clock.  Good-night." 

John  went  up  the  steps,  singing  aloud : 

"For  to-night  we'll  merry,   merry  be, 
For  to-night  we'll   merry,    merry  be," 

and  stopped  on  the  sagging  platform  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs  and  gave  the  moon  good-night  with  a 


114  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

wave  of  the  hand  and  friendly  laughter.  At  that  it 
suddenly  struck  him  that  he  was  twenty-nine  years 
of  age;  that  he  had  laughed  a  great  deal  that  even 
ing;  that  he  had  laughed  and  laughed  over  things 
not  in  the  least  humorous,  like  an  excited  schoolboy 
making  his  first  formal  call;  that  he  had  shaken 
hands  with  Miss  Briscoe  when  he  left  her,  as  if  he 
should  never  see  her  again;  that  he  had  taken  Miss 
Sherwood's  hand  twice  in  one  very  temporary  part 
ing;  that  he  had  shaken  the  judge's  hand  five  times, 
and  William's  four! 

"Idiot!"  he  cried.  "What  has  happened  to  me?" 
Then  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  moon  and  went  in  tc 
work — he  thought. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MORNING:  "SOME  IN  RAGS  AND  SOME  IN  TAGS  AND 
SOME  IN  VELVET  GOWNS" 

THE  bright  sun  of  circus-day  shone  into  Hark- 
less's  window,  and  he  awoke  to  find  himself 
smiling.  For  a  little  while  he  lay  content, 
drowsily  wondering  why  he  smiled,  only  knowing 
that  there  was  something  new.  It  was  thus,  as  a 
boy,  he  had  wakened  on  his  birthday  mornings,  or 
on  Christmas,  or  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  drifting 
happily  out  of  pleasant  dreams  into  the  conscious 
ness  of  long-awaited  delights  that  had  come  true, 
yet  lying  only  half-awake  in  a  cheerful  borderland, 
leaving  happiness  undefined. 

The  morning  breeze  was  fluttering  at  his  window 
blind;  a  honeysuckle  vine  tapped  lightly  on  the 
pane.  Birds  were  trilling,  warbling,  whistling.  From 
the  street  came  the  rumbling  of  wagons,  merry  cries 
of  greeting,  and  the  barking  of  dogs.  What  was  it 
made  him  feel  so  young  and  strong  and  light- 
hearted?  The  breeze  brought  him  the  smell  of 

115 


116  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

June  roses,  fresh  and  sweet  with  dew,  and  then  he 
knew  why  he  had  come  smiling  from  his  dreams. 
He  would  go  a  holiday-making.  With  that  he 
leaped  out  of  bed,  and  shouted  loudly:  "Zen!  Hello, 
Xenophon !" 

In  answer,  an  ancient,  very  black  darky  put  his 
head  in  at  the  door,  his  warped  and  wrinkled  visage 
showing  under  his  grizzled  hair  like  charred  paper 
in  a  fall  of  pine  ashes.  He  said:  "Good-mawn',  suh. 
Yessuh.  Hit's  done  pump'  full.  Good-mawn',  suh." 

A  few  moments  later,  the  colored  man,  seated  on 
the  front  steps  of  the  cottage,  heard  a  mighty  splash 
ing  within,  while  the  rafters  rang  with  stentorian 
song: 

"He  promised  to  buy  me  a  bunch  o'  blue  ribbon, 

He  promised  to  buy  me  a  bunch  o'  blue  ribbon, 

He  promised  to  buy  me  a  bunch  o'  blue  ribbon, 

To  tie  up  my  bonny  brown  hair 

"Oh  dear!  What  can  the  matter  be? 
Oh  dear!  What  can  the  matter  be? 
Oh  dear!  What  can  the  matter  be? 

Johnnie's  so  long  at  the  Fair!" 

At  the  sound  of  this  complaint,  delivered  in  a 
manly  voice,  the  listener's  jaw  dropped,  and  his 
mouth  opened  and  stayed  open.  "Him!"  he  mut 
tered,  faintly.  "Singin'!" 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   117 

"Well,  the  old  Triangle  knew  the  music  of  our  tread; 
How  the  peaceful  Seminole  would  tremble  in  his  bed!" 

sang  the  editor. 

"I  dunno  huccome  it,"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
"an'  dat  am'  hyer  ner  dar;  but,  bless  Gawd!  de 
young  man'  happy!"  A  thought  struck  him  sud 
denly,  and  he  scratched  his  head.  "Maybe  he  goin' 
away,"  he  said,  querulously.  "What  become  o' 
ole  Zen?"  The  splashing  ceased,  but  not  the  voice, 
which  struck  into  a  noble  marching  chorus.  "Oh, 
my  Lawd,"  said  the  colored  man,  "I  pray  you  listen 
at  dat!" 

"Soldiers  marching  up  the  street, 
They  keep  the  time; 
They  look  sublime! 
Hear  them  play  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein! 
They  call  them  Schneider's  Band. 
Tra  la  la  la,  la!" 

The  length  of  Main  Street  and  all  the  Square 
resounded  with  the  rattle  of  vehicles  of  every  kind. 
Since  earliest  dawn  they  had  been  pouring  into  the 
village,  a  long  procession  on  every  country  road. 
There  were  great  red  and  blue  farm  wagons,  drawn 
by  splendid  Clydesdales;  the  elders  of  the  family  on 
the  front  seat  and  on  boards  laid  from  side  to  side  in 
front,  or  on  chairs  placed  close  behind,  while,  in  the 


118  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

deep  beds  back  of  these,  children  tumbled  in  the 
straw,  or  peeped  over  the  sides,  rosy-cheeked  and 
laughing,  eyes  alight  with  blissful  anticipations. 
There  were  more  pretentious  two-seated  cut-unders 
and  stout  buckboards,  loaded  down  with  merry 
makers,  four  on  a  seat  meant  for  two;  there  were 
rattle-trap  phaetons  and  comfortable  carry-alls 
drawn  by  steady  spans;  and,  now  and  then,  mule- 
teams  bringing  happy  negroes,  ready  to  squander 
all  on  the  first  Georgia  watermelons  and  cider. 
Every  vehicle  contained  heaping  baskets  of  good 
things  to  eat  (the  previous  night  had  been  a  woeful 
Bartholomew  for  Carlow  chickens)  and  underneath, 
where  the  dogs  paced  faithfully,  swung  buckets  and 
fodder  for  the  horses,  while  colts  innumerable  trotted 
close  to  the  maternal  flanks,  viewing  the  world  with 
their  big,  new  eyes  in  frisky  surprise. 

Here  and  there  the  trim  side-bar  buggy  of  some 
prosperous  farmer's  son,  escorting  his  sweetheart, 
flashed  along  the  road,  the  young  mare  stepping 
out  in  pride  of  blood  to  pass  the  line  of  wagons,  the 
youth  who  held  the  reins,  resplendent  in  Sunday 
best  and  even  better,  his  scorched  brown  face  glow 
ing  with  a  fine  belief  in  the  superiority  of  both  his 
steed  and  his  lady;  the  latter  beaming  out  upon  life 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   119 

and  rejoicing  in  the  light-blue  ribbons  on  her  hat, 
the  light-blue  ribbon  around  her  waist,  the  light- 
blue,  silk  half -mittens  on  her  hands,  and  the  beautiful 
red  coral  necklace  about  her  neck  and  the  red  coral 
buttons  that  fastened  her  gown  in  the  back. 

The  air  was  full  of  exhilaration;  everybody  was 
laughing  and  shouting  and  calling  greetings;  for 
Carlow  County  was  turning  out,  and  from  far  and 
near  the  country  people  came;  nay,  from  over  the 
county  line,  clouds  of  dust  rising  from  every  thor 
oughfare  and  highway,  and  sweeping  into  town  to 
herald  their  coming. 

Dibb  Zane,  the  "sprinkling  contractor,"  had  been 
at  work  with  the  town  water-cart  since  the  morning 
stars  were  bright,  but  he  might  as  well  have  watered 
the  streets  with  his  tears,  which,  indeed,  when  the 
farmers  began  to  come  in,  bringing  their  cyclones 
of  dust,  he  drew  nigh  unto,  after  a  spell  of  profanity 
as  futile  as  his  cart. 

"Tief  wie  das  Meer  soil  deine  Liebe  sein," 

hummed  the  editor  in  the  cottage.  His  song  had 
taken  on  a  reflective  tone  as  that  of  one  who  cons 
a  problem,  or  musically  ponders  which  card  to  play. 
He  was  kneeling  before  an  old  trunk  in  his  bed 
chamber.  From  one  compartment  he  took  a  neatly 


120  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

folded  pair  of  duck  trousers  and  a  light-gray  tweed 
coat;  from  another,  a  straw  hat  with  a  ribbon  of 
bright  colors.  They  had  lain  in  the  trunk  a  long 
time  undisturbed;  and  he  examined  them  musingly. 
He  shook  the  coat  and  brushed  it;  then  he  laid  the 
garments  upon  his  bed,  and  proceeded  to  shave  him 
self  carefully,  after  which  he  donned  the  white 
trousers,  the  gray  coat,  and,  rummaging  in  the  trunk 
again,  found  a  gay  pink  cravat,  which  he  fastened 
about  his  tall  collar  (also  a  resurrection  from  the 
trunk)  with  a  pearl  pin.  After  that  he  had  a  long, 
solemn  time  arranging  his  hair  with  a  pair  of  brushes. 
When  at  last  he  was  suited,  and  his  dressing  com 
pleted,  he  sallied  forth  to  breakfast. 

Xenophon  stared  after  him  as  he  went  out  of  the 
gate  whistling  heartily.  The  old  darky  lifted  his 
hands,  palms  outward. 

"Lan'  name,  who  dat!"  he  exclaimed  aloud.  "Who 
dat  in  dem  pan-jingeries?  He  jine'  de  circus?"  His 
hands  fell  upon  his  knees,  and  he  got  to  his  feet 
rheumatically,  shaking  his  head  writh  foreboding. 
"Honey,  honey,  hit'  baid  luck,  baid  luck  sing  'fo' 
breakfus.  Trouble  'fo'  de  day  be  done.  Trouble, 
honey,  gre't  trouble.  Baid  luck,  baid  luck!" 

Along  the  Square  the  passing  of  the  editor  in  his 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   121 

cool  equipment  evoked  some  gasps  of  astonishment ; 
and  Mr.  Tibbs  and  his  sister  rushed  from  the  post- 
office  to  stare  after  him. 

"He  looks  just  beautiful,  Solomon,"  said  Miss 
Tibbs. 

"But  what's  the  name  for  them  kind  of  clothes?" 
inquired  her  brother.  "'Seems  to  me  there's  a 
special  way  of  callin'  'em.  'Seems  as  if  I  see  a  pic 
ture  of  'em,  somewheres.  Wasn't  it  on  the  cover  of 
that  there  long-tennis  box  we  bought  and  put  in  the 
window,  and  the  country  people  thought  it  was  a 
seining  outfit?" 

"It  was  a  game,  the  catalogue  said,"  observed 
Miss  Selina.  "Wasn't  it?" 

"It  was  a  mighty  pore  investment,"  the  post 
master  answered. 

As  Harkless  approached  the  hotel,  a  decrepit  old 
man,  in  a  vast  straw  hat  and  a  linen  duster  much  too 
large  for  him,  came  haltingly  forward  to  meet  him. 
He  was  Widow-Woman  Wimby's  husband.  And, 
as  did  every  one  else,  he  spoke  of  his  wife  by  the 
name  of  her  former  martial  companion. 

"Be'n  a-lookin'  fer  you,  Mr.  Harkless,"  he  said  in 
a  shaking  spindle  of  a  voice,  as  plaintive  as  his  pale 
little  eyes.  "Mother  Wimby,  she  sent  some  rose* 


122  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

to  ye.  Cynthy's  fixin'  'em  on  yer  table.  I'm  well 
as  ever  I  am;  but  her,  she's  too  complaining  to  come 
in  fer  show-day.  This  morning,  early,  we  see  some 
the  Cross-Roads  folks  pass  the  place  towards  town, 
an'  she  sent  me  in  to  tell  ye.  Oh,  I  knowed  ye'd 
laugh.  Says  she,  'He's  too  much  of  a  man  to  be 
skeered,'  says  she,  'these  here  tall,  big  men  always 
'low  nothin'  on  earth  kin  hurt  'em,'  says  she,  'but 
you  tell  him  to  be  keerful,'  says  she;  an'  I  see  Bill 
Skillett  an'  his  brother  on  the  Square  lessun  a  half- 
an-hour  ago,  'th  my  own  eyes.  I  won't  keep  ye 
from  yer  breakfast. — Eph  Watts  is  in  there,  eatin'. 
He's  come  back;  but  I  guess  I  don't  need  to  warn 
ye  agin'  him.  He  seems  peaceable  enough.  It's  the 
other  folks  you  got  to  look  out  fer." 

He  limped  away.  The  editor  waved  his  hand  to 
him  from  the  door,  but  the  old  fellow  shook  his 
head,  and  made  a  warning,  friendly  gesture  with  his 
arm. 

Harkless  usually  ate  his  breakfast  alone,  as  he  was 
the  latest  riser  in  Plattville.  (There  were  days  in  the 
winter  when  he  did  not  reach  the  hotel  until  eight 
o'clock.)  This  morning  he  found  a  bunch  of  white 
roses,  still  wet  with  dew  and  so  fragrant  that  the 
whole  room  was  fresh  and  sweet  with  their  odor, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   123 

prettily  arranged  in  a  bowl  on  the  table,  and,  at  his 
plate,  the  largest  of  all  with  a  pin  through  the  stem. 
He  looked  up,  smilingly,  and  nodded  at  the  red- 
haired  girl.  "Thank  you,  Charmion,"  he  said. 
"That's  very  pretty." 

She  turned  even  redder  than  she  always  was,  and 
answered  nothing,  vigorously  darting  her  brush  at 
an  imaginary  fly  on  the  cloth.  After  several  min 
utes  she  said  abruptly,  "You're  welcome." 

There  was  a  silence,  finally  broken  by  a  long, 
gasping  sigh.  Astonished,  he  looked  at  the  girl. 
Her  eyes  were  set  unfathomably  upon  his  pink  tie; 
the  wand  had  dropped  from  her  nerveless  hand,  and 
she  stood  rapt  and  immovable.  She  started  violently 
from  her  trance.  "Ain't  you  goin'  to  finish  your 
coffee?"  she  asked,  plying  her  instrument  again,  and, 
bending  over  him  slightly,  whispered:  "Say,  Eph 
Watts  is  over  there  behind  you." 

At  a  table  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room  a  large 
gentleman  in  a  brown  frock  coat  was  quietly  eating 
his  breakfast  and  reading  the  "Herald."  He  was 
of  an  ornate  presence,  though  entirely  neat.  A 
sumptuous  expanse  of  linen  exhibited  itself  between 
the  lapels  of  his  low-cut  waistcoat,  and  an  inch  of 
bediamonded  breastpin  glittered  there,  like  an  ice- 


124  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

ledge  on  a  snowy  mountain  side.  He  had  a  steady, 
blue  eye  and  a  dissipated,  iron-gray  mustache. 
This  personage  was  Mr.  Ephraim  Watts,  who,  fol 
lowing  a  calling  more  fashionable  in  the  eighteenth 
century  than  in  the  latter  decades  of  the  nineteenth, 
had  shaken  the  dust  of  Carlow  from  his  feet  some 
three  years  previously,  at  the  strong  request  of  the 
authorities.  The  "Herald"  had  been  particularly 
insistent  upon  his  deportation,  and,  in  the  local 
phrase,  Harkless  had  "run  him  out  of  town."  Per 
haps  it  was  because  the  "Herald's"  opposition  (as 
the  editor  explained  at  the  time)  had  been  merely 
moral  and  impersonal,  and  the  editor  had  always 
confessed  to  a  liking  for  the  unprofessional  qualities 
of  Mr.  Watts,  that  there  was  but  slight  embarrass 
ment  when  the  two  gentlemen  met  to-day.  His 
breakfast  finished,  Harkless  went  over  to  the  other 
and  extended  his  hand.  Cynthia  held  her  breath 
and  clutched  the  back  of  a  chair.  However,  Mr. 
Watts  made  no  motion  toward  his  well-known 
hip  pocket.  Instead,  he  rose,  flushed  slightly,  and 
accepted  the  hand  offered  him. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Watts,"  said  the  jour 
nalist,  cordially.  "Also,  if  you  are  running  with 
the  circus  and  calculate  on  doing  business  here 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   125 

to-day,  I'll  have  to  see  that  you  are  fired  out  of 
town  before  noon.  How  are  you?  You're  looking 
extremely  well." 

"Mr.  Harkless,"  answered  Watts,  "I  cherish  no 
hard  feelings,  and  I  never  said  but  what  you  done 
exactly  right  when  I  left,  three  years  ago.  No,  sir; 
I'm  not  here  in  a  professional  way  at  all,  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  molested.  I've  connected  myself 
with  an  oil  company,  and  I'm  down  here  to  look 
over  the  ground.  It  beats  poker  and  fan-tan  hollow, 
though  there  ain't  as  many  chances  in  favor  of  the 
dealer,  and  in  oil  it's  the  farmer  that  gets  the  rake-off. 
I've  come  back,  but  in  an  enterprising  spirit  this 
time,  to  open  up  a  new  field  and  shed  light  and 
money  in  Carlow.  They  told  me  never  to  show  my 
face  here  again,  but  if  you  say  I  stay,  I  guess  I 
stay.  I  always  was  sure  there  was  oil  in  the  county, 
and  I  want  to  prove  it  for  everybody's  benefit. 
Is  it  all  right?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  laughed  the  young  man, 
shaking  the  gambler's  hand  again,  "it  is  all  right. 
I  have  always  been  sorry  I  had  to  act  against  you. 
Everything  is  all  right!  Stay  and  bore  to  Corea  if 
you  like.  Did  ever  you  see  such  glorious  weather?" 

"I'll  let  you  in  on  some  shares,"  Watts  called 


126  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

after  him  as  he  turned  away.  He  nodded  in  reply 
and  was  leaving  the  room  when  Cynthia  detained 
him  by  a  flourish  of  the  fly-brush.  "Say,"  she  said, 
— she  always  called  him  "Say" — "You've  forgot 
your  flower." 

He  came  back,  and  thanked  her.  "Will  you  pin 
it  on  for  me,  Charmion?" 

"I  don't  know  what  call  you  got  to  speak  to  me 
out  of  my  name,"  she  responded,  looking  at  the 
floor  moodily. 

"Why?"  he  asked,  surprised. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  want  to  make  fun  of  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Cynthia,"  he  said  gravely. 
"I  didn't  mean  to  do  that.  I  haven't  been  con 
siderate.  I  didn't  think  you'd  be  displeased.  I'm 
very  sorry.  Won't  you  pin  it  on  my  coat?" 

Her  face  was  lifted  in  grateful  pleasure,  and  she 
began  to  pin  the  rose  to  his  lapel.  Her  hands  were 
large  and  red  and  trembled.  She  dropped  the 
flower,  and,  saying  huskily,  "I  don't  know  as  I 
could  do  it  right,"  seized  violently  upon  a  pile  of 
dishes  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

Harkless  rescued  the  rose,  pinned  it  on  his  coat 
himself,  and,  observing  internally,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  that  the  red-haired  waitress  was  the  queerest 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   127 

creature  in   the   village,   set   forth   gaily   upon   his 
holiday. 

When  he  reached  the  brick  house  on  the  pike  he 
discovered  a  gentleman  sunk  in  an  easy  and  con 
templative  attitude  in  a  big  chair  behind  the  veranda 
railing.  At  the  click  of  the  gate  the  lounger  rose 
and  disclosed  the  stalwart  figure  and  brown,  smil 
ing,  handsome  face  of  Mr.  Lige  Willetts,  an  ha 
bitual  devotee  of  Minnie  Briscoe,  and  the  most 
eligible  bachelor  of  Carlo w.  "The  ladies  will  be 
down  right  off,"  he  said,  greeting  the  editor's  finery 
with  a  perceptible  agitation  and  the  editor  himself 
with  a  friendly  shake  of  the  hand.  "Mildy  says  to 
wait  out  here." 

But  immediately  there  was  a  faint  rustling  within 
the  house:  the  swish  of  draperies  on  the  stairs,  a 
delicious  whispering  when  light  feet  descend,  tap 
ping,  to  hearts  that  beat  an  answer,  the  telegraphic 
message,  "We  come!  We  come!  We  are  near! 
We  are  near!"  Lige  Willetts  stared  at  Harkless. 
He  had  never  thought  the  latter  good-looking  until 
he  saw  him  step  to  the  door  to  take  Miss  Sher 
wood's  hand  and  say  in  a  strange,  low,  tense  voice, 
"Good-morning,"  as  if  he  were  announcing,  at  the 


128  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

least:  "Every  one  in  the  world  except  us  two,  died 
last  night.  It  is  a  solemn  thing,  but  I  am  very 
happy." 

They  walked,  Minnie  and  Mr.  Willetts  a  little 
distance  in  front  of  the  others.  Harkless  could  not 
have  told,  afterward,  whether  they  rode,  or  walked, 
or  floated  on  an  air-ship  to  the  court-house.  All 
he  knew  distinctly  was  that  a  divinity  in  a  pink 
shirt  waist,  and  a  hat  that  was  woven  of  gauzy 
cloud  by  mocking  fairies  to  make  him  stoop  hideously 
to  see  under  it,  dwelt  for  the  time  on  earth  and 
was  at  his  side,  dazzling  him  in  the  morning  sun 
shine.  Last  night  the  moon  had  lent  her  a  silvery 
glamour;  she  had  something  of  the  ethereal  white 
ness  of  night-dews  in  that  watery  light,  a  nymph 
to  laugh  from  a  sparkling  fountain,  at  the  moon  or, 
as  he  thought,  remembering  her  courtesy  for  his 
pretty  speech,  perhaps  a  little  lady  of  King  Louis's 
court,  wandering  down  the  years  from  Fontainebleau 
and  appearing  to  clumsy  mortals  sometimes,  of  a 
June  night  when  the  moon  was  in  their  heads. 

But  to-day  she  was  of  the  clearest  color,  a  pretty 
girl,  whose  gray  eyes  twinkled  to  his  in  gay  com 
panionship.  He  marked  how  the  sunshine  was 
spun  into  the  fair  shadows  of  her  hair  and  seemed 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   129 

itself  to  catch  a  lustre,  rather  than  to  impart  it, 
and  the  light  of  the  June  day  drifted  through  the 
gauzy  hat,  touching  her  face  with  a  delicate  and 
tender  flush  that  came  and  went  like  the  vibrating 
pink  of  early  dawn.  She  had  the  divinest  straight 
nose,  tip-tilted  the  faintest,  most  alluring  trifle,  and 
a  dimple  cleft  her  chin,  "the  deadliest  maelstrom  in 
the  world!"  He  thrilled  through  and  through.  He 
had  been  only  vaguely  conscious  of  the  dimple  in 
the  night.  It  was  not  until  he  saw  her  by  daylight 
that  he  really  knew  it  was  there. 

The  village  hummed  with  life  before  them.  They 
walked  through  shimmering  airs,  sweeter  to  breathe 
than  nectar  is  to  drink.  She  caught  a  butterfly, 
basking  on  a  jimson  weed,  and,  before  she  let  it 
go,  held  it  out  to  him  in  her  hand.  It  was  a  white 
butterfly.  He  asked  which  was  the  butterfly. 

"Bravo!"  she  said,  tossing  the  captive  craft 
above  their  heads  and  watching  the  small  sails 
catch  the  breeze;  "And  so  you  can  make  little 
flatteries  in  the  morning,  too.  It  is  another  courtesy 
you  should  be  having  from  me,  if  it  weren't  for  the 
dustiness  of  it.  Wait  till  we  come  to  the  board  walk." 

She  had  some  big,  pink  roses  at  her  waist.  "In 
the  meantime,"  he  answered,  indicating  these,  "I 


130  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

know  very  well  a  lad  that  would  be  blithe  to  accept 
a  pretty  token  of  any  lady's  high  esteem." 

"But  you  have  one,  already,  a  very  beautiful 
one."  She  gave  him  a  genial  up-and-down  glance 
from  head  to  foot,  half  quizzical,  but  so  quick  he 
almost  missed  it.  And  then  he  was  glad  he  had 
found  the  straw  hat  with  the  youthful  ribbon,  and 
all  his  other  festal  vestures.  "And  a  very  becoming 
flower  a  white  rose  is,"  she  continued,  "though  I 
am  a  bold  girl  to  be  blarneying  with  a  young  gentle 
man  I  met  no  longer  ago  than  last  night." 

"But  why  shouldn't  you  blarney  with  a  gentle 
man,  when  you  began  by  saving  his  life?" 

"Or,  rather,  when  the  gentleman  had  the  polite 
ness  to  gallop  about  the  county  with  me  tucked 
under  his  arm?"  She  stood  still  and  laughed  softly, 
but  consummately,  and  her  eyes  closed  tight  with 
the  mirth  of  it.  She  had  taken  one  of  the  roses 
from  her  waist,  and,  as  she  stood,  holding  it  by  the 
long  stem,  its  petals  lightly  pressed  her  lips. 

"You  may  have  it — in  exchange,"  she  said.  He 
bent  down  to  her,  and  she  began  to  fasten  the  pink 
rose  in  place  of  the  white  one  on  his  coat.  She  did 
not  ask  him,  directly  or  indirectly,  who  had  put 
the  white  one  there  for  him,  because  she  knew  by 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   131 

the  way  it  was  pinned  that  he  had  done  it  himself. 
"Who  is  it  that  ev'ry  morning  brings  me  these 
lovely  flow'rs?"  she  burlesqued,  as  he  bent  over  her. 

"  'Mr.  Wimby,'  "  he  returned.  "I  will  point  him 
out  to  you.  You  must  see  him,  and,  also,  Mr. 
Bodeffer,  the  oldest  inhabitant — and  Grossest." 

"Will  you  present  them  to  me?" 

"No;  they  might  talk  to  you  and  take  some  of 
my  time  with  you  away  from  me."  Her  eyes 
sparkled  into  his  for  the  merest  fraction  of  a  second, 
and  she  laughed  half  mockingly.  Then  she  dropped 
his  lapel  and  they  proceeded.  She  did  not  put  the 
white  rose  in  her  belt,  but  carried  it. 

The  Square  was  heaving  with  a  jostling,  good- 
natured,  happy,  and  constantly  increasing  crowd 
that  overflowed  on  Main  Street  in  both  directions; 
and  the  good  nature  of  this  crowd  was  augmented 
in  the  ratio  that  its  size  increased.  The  streets 
were  a  confusion  of  many  colors,  and  eager  faces 
filled  every  window  opening  on  Main  Street  or  the 
Square.  Since  nine  o'clock  all  those  of  the  court 
house  had  been  occupied,  and  here  most  of  the  dam 
sels  congregated  to  enjoy  the  spectacle  of  the  parade, 
and  their  swains  attended,  gallantly  posting  them 
selves  at  coignes  of  less  vantage  behind  the  ladies. 


132  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Some  of  the  faces  that  peeped  from  the  dark,  old 
court-house  windows  were  pretty,  and  some  of 
them  were  not  pretty;  but  nearly  all  of  them  were 
rosy-cheeked,  and  all  were  pleasant  to  see  because 
of  the  good  cheer  they  showed.  Some  of  the  gal 
lants  affected  the  airy  and  easy,  entertaining  the 
company  with  badinage  and  repartee;  some  were 
openly  bashful.  Now  and  then  one  of  the  latter, 
after  long  deliberation,  constructed  a  laborious 
compliment  for  his  inamorata,  and,  after  advancing 
and  propounding  half  of  it,  again  retired  into  him 
self,  smit  with  a  blissful  palsy.  Nearly  all  of  them 
conversed  in  tones  that  might  have  indicated  that 
they  were  separated  from  each  other  by  an  acre 
lot  or  two. 

Here  and  there,  along  the  sidewalk  below,  a 
father  worked  his  way  through  the  throng,  a  licorice- 
bedaubed  cherub  on  one  arm,  his  coat  (borne  with 
long  enough)  on  the  other;  followed  by  a  mother 
with  the  other  children  hanging  to  her  skirts  and 
tagging  exasperatingly  behind,  holding  red  and 
blue  toy  balloons  and  delectable  batons  of  spiral- 
striped  peppermint  in  tightly  closed,  sadly  sticky 
fingers. 

A    thousand    cries    rent    the    air;    the    strolling 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   133 

mountebanks  and  gypsying  booth-merchants;  the 
peanut  vendors;  the  boys  with  palm-leaf  fans  for 
sale;  the  candy  sellers;  the  popcorn  peddlers;  the 
Italian  with  the  toy  balloons  that  float  like  a  cluster 
of  colored  bubbles  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd, 
and  the  balloons  that  wail  like  a  baby;  the  red- 
lemonade  man,  shouting  in  the  shrill  voice  that 
reaches  everywhere  and  endures  forever:  "Lemo! 
Lemo!  Ice-cole  lemo!  Five  cents,  a  nickel,  a  half- 
a-dime,  the  twentiethpotof adollah !  Lemo!  Ice-cole 
lemo!" — all  the  vociferating  harbingers  of  the  circus 
crying  their  wares.  Timid  youth,  in  shoes  covered 
with  dust  through  which  the  morning  polish  but 
dimly  shone,  and  unalterably  hooked  by  the  arm  to 
blushing  maidens,  bought  recklessly  of  peanuts,  of 
candy,  of  popcorn,  of  all  known  sweetmeats,  per 
chance;  and  forced  their  way  to  the  lemonade 
stands;  and  there,  all  shyly,  silently  sipped  the 
crimson-stained  ambrosia.  Everywhere  the  hawkers 
dinned,  and  everywhere  was  heard  the  plaintive 
squawk  of  the  toy  balloon. 

But  over  all  rose  the  nasal  cadence  of  the  Cheap 
John,  reeking  oratory  from  his  big  wagon  on  the 
corner:  "Walk  up,  walk  up,  walk  up,  ladies  and 
gents!  Here  we  are!  Here  we  are!  Make  hay  while 


134  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

we  gather  the  moss.  Walk  up,  one  and  all.  Here 
I  put  this  solid  gold  ring,  sumptuous  and  golden, 
eighteen  carats,  eighteen  golden  carats  of  the 
priceless  mother  of  metals,  toiled  fer  on  the  wild 
Pacific  slope,  eighteen  garnteed,  I  put  this  golden 
ring,  rich  and  golden,  in  the  package  with  the  hang- 
kacheef,  the  elegant  and  blue-ruled  note-paper,  self- 
writing  pens,  pencil  and  penholder.  Who  takes  the 
lot?  Who  takes  it,  ladies  and  gents?" 

His  tongue  curled  about  his  words;  he  seemed  to 
love  them.  "Fer  a  quat-of -a-dollah !  Don't  turn 
away,  young  man — you  feller  in  the  green  necktie, 
there.  We  all  see  the  young  lady  on  your  arm  is 
a-langrishing  fer  the  golden  ring  and  the  package. 
Faint  heart  never  won  fair  wummin'.  There  you 
are,  sir,  and  you'll  never  regret  it.  Go — and  be 
happy!  Now,  who's  the  next  man  to  git  solid  with 
his  girl  fer  a  quat-of -a-dollah?  Life  is  a  mysterus 
and  unviolable  shadder,  my  friends;  who  kin  read  its 
orgeries?  To-day  we  are  here — but  to-morrow  we 
may  be  in  jail.  Only  a  quat-of -a-dollah !  We  are 
Seventh-Day  Adventists,  ladies  and  gents,  a-givin' 
away  our  belongings  in  the  awful  face  of  Michael, 
fer  a  quat-of -a-dollah.  The  same  price  fer  each-an- 
devery  individual,  lady  and  gent,  man,  wummin, 


wife  and  child,  and  happiness  to  one  and  all  fer  a 
quat-of-a-dollah !" 

Down  the  middle  of  the  street,  kept  open  between 
the  waiting  crowd,  ran  barefoot  boys,  many  of 
whom  had  not  slept  at  home,  but  had  kept  vigil 
in  the  night  mists  for  the  coming  of  the  show,  and, 
having  seen  the  muffled  pageant  arrive,  swathed, 
and  with  no  pomp  and  panoply,  had  returned  to 
town,  rioting  through  jewelled  cobwebs  in  the  morn 
ing  fields,  happy  in  the  pride  of  knowledge  of  what 
went  on  behind  the  scenes.  To-night,  or  to-morrow, 
the  runaways  would  face  a  woodshed  reckoning 
with  outraged  ancestry;  but  now  they  caracoled 
in  the  dust  with  no  thought  of  the  grim  deeds  to 
be  done  upon  them. 

In  the  court-house  yard,  and  so  sinning  in  the 
very  eye  of  the  law,  two  swarthy,  shifty-looking 
gentlemen  were  operating  (with  some  greasy  walnut 
shells  and  a  pea)  what  the  fanciful  or  unsophisti 
cated  might  have  been  pleased  to  call  a  game  of 
chance;  and  the  most  intent  spectator  of  the  group 
around  them  was  Mr.  James  Bardlock,  the  Town 
Marshal.  He  was  simply  and  unofficially  and  ear 
nestly  interested.  Thus  the  eye  of  Justice  may  not 
be  said  to  have  winked  upon  the  nefariousness  now 


136  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

under  its  vision;  it  gazed  with  strong  curiosity,  an 
itch  to  dabble,  and  (it  must  be  admitted)  a  growing 
hope  of  profit.  The  game  was  so  direct  and  the 
player  so  sure.  Several  countrymen  had  won  small 
sums,  and  one,  a  charmingly  rustic  stranger,  with  a 
peculiar  accent  (he  said  that  him  and  his  goil  should 
now  have  a  smoot'  old  time  off  his  winninks — though 
the  lady  was  not  manifested),  had  won  twenty-five 
dollars  with  no  trouble  at  all.  The  two  operators 
seemed  depressed,  declaring  the  luck  against  them 
and  the  Plattville  people  too  brilliant  at  the  game. 

It  was  wonderful  how  the  young  couples  worked 
their  way  arm-in-arm  through  the  thickest  crowds, 
never  separating.  Even  at  the  lemonade  stands 
they  drank  holding  the  glasses  in  their  outer  hands 
— such  are  the  sacrifices  demanded  by  etiquette. 
But,  observing  the  gracious  outpouring  of  fortune 
upon  the  rustic  with  the  rare  accent,  a  youth  in  a 
green  tie  disengaged  his  arm — for  the  first  time  in 
two  hours — from  that  of  a  girl  upon  whose  finger 
there  shone  a  ring,  sumptuous  and  golden,  and, 
conducting  her  to  a  corner  of  the  yard,  bade  her 
remain  there  until  he  returned.  He  had  to  speak 
to  Hartly  Bowlder,  he  explained. 

Then  he  plunged,  red-faced  and  excited,  into  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   137 

circle  about  the  shell  manipulators,  and  offered  to 
lay  a  wager. 

"Hoi5  on  there,  Hen  Fentriss,"  thickly  objected 
a  flushed  young  man  beside  him,  "iss  my  turn." 

"I'm  first,  Hartley,"  returned  the  other.  "You 
can  hold  yer  hosses  a  minute,  I  reckon." 

"Plenty  fer  each  and  all,  clients,"  interrupted  one 
of  the  shell-men.  "Place  yer  spondulicks  on  de 
little  ball.  W'ich  is  de  next  lucky  one  to  win  our 
money?  Ghent  bets  four  sixty -five  he  seen  de  little 
ball  go  under  de  middle  shell.  Up  she  comes!  Dis 
time  we  wins;  Plattville  can't  win  every  time.  Who's 
de  next  chent?" 

Fentriss  edged  slowly  out  of  the  circle,  abashed, 
and  with  rapidly  whitening  cheeks.  He  paused  for 
a  moment,  outside,  slowly  realizing  that  all  his 
money  had  gone  in  one  wild,  blind  whirl — the 
money  he  had  earned  so  hard  and  saved  so  hard,  to 
make  a  holiday  for  his  sweetheart  and  himself.  He 
stole  one  glance  around  the  building  to  where  a 
patient  figure  waited  for  him.  Then  he  fled  down 
a  side  alley  and  soon  was  out  upon  the  country  road, 
tramping  soddenly  homeward  through  the  dust,  his 
chin  sunk  in  his  breast  and  his  hands  clenched  tight 
at  his  sides.  Now  and  then  he  stopped  and  bitterly 


138  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

hurled  a  stone  at  a  piping  bird  on  a  fence,  or  gay 
Bob  White  in  the  fields.  At  noon  the  patient  figure 
was  still  waiting  in  the  corner  of  the  court-house 
yard,  meekly  twisting  the  golden  ring  upon  her 
finger. 

But  the  flushed  young  man  who  had  spoken 
thickly  to  her  deserter  drew  an  envied  roll  of  bank- 
bills  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  bet  with  tipsy 
caution,  while  the  circle  about  the  gamblers  watched 
with  fervid  interest,  especially  Mr.  Bardlock,  Town 
Marshal. 

From  far  up  Main  Street  came  the  cry  "She's 
a-comin'!  She's  a-comin'!"  and,  this  announcement 
of  the  parade  proving  only  one  of  a  dozen  false 
alarms,  a  thousand  discussions  took  place  over  old- 
fashioned  silver  timepieces  as  to  when  "she"  was 
really  due.  Schofields'  Henry  was  much  appealed  to 
as  an  arbiter  in  these  discussions,  from  a  sense  of 
his  having  a  good  deal  to  do  with  time  in  a  general 
sort  of  way;  and  thus  Schofields'  came  to  be  re 
minded  that  it  was  getting  on  toward  ten  o'clock, 
whereas,  in  the  excitement  of  festival,  he  had  not 
yet  struck  nine.  This,  rushing  forthwith  to  do, 
he  did;  and,  in  the  elation  of  the  moment,  seven  or 
eight  besides.  Miss  Helen  Sherwood  was  looking 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   139 

down  on  the  mass  of  shifting  color  from  a  second- 
story  window — whither  many  an  eye  was  upturned 
in  wonder — and  she  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Schofields'  emerge  on  the  steps  beneath  her,  when 
the  bells  had  done,  and  heard  the  cheers  (led  by 
Mr.  Martin)  with  which  the  laughing  crowd  greeted 
his  appearance  after  the  performance  of  his  feat. 

She  turned  beamingly  to  Harkless.  "What  a 
family  it  is!"  she  laughed.  "Just  one  big,  jolly 
family.  I  didn't  know  people  could  be  like  this 
until  I  came  to  Plattville." 

"That  is  the  word  for  it,"  he  answered,  resting  his 
hand  on  the  casement  beside  her.  "I  used  to  think 
it  was  desolate,  but  that  was  long  ago."  He  leaned 
from  the  window  to  look  down.  In  his  dark  cheek 
was  a  glow  Carlo w  folk  had  never  seen  there;  and 
somehow  he  seemed  less  thin  and  tired;  indeed,  he 
did  not  seem  tired  at  all,  by  far  the  contrary;  and  he 
carried  himself  upright  (when  he  was  not  stooping 
to  see  under  the  hat),  though  not  as  if  he  thought 
about  it.  "I  believe  they  are  the  best  people  I 
know,"  he  went  on.  "Perhaps  it  is  because  they 
have  been  so  kind  to  me;  but  they  are  kind  to  each 
other,  too;  kind,  good  people " 

"I  know,"   she   said,   nodding — a  flower   on   the 


140  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

gauzy  hat  set  to  vibrating  in  a  tantalizing  way.  "I 
know.  There  are  fat  women  who  rock  and  rock 
on  piazzas  by  the  sea,  and  they  speak  of  country 
people  as  the  'lower  classes.'  How  happy  this  big 
family  is  in  not  knowing  it  is  the  lower  classes!" 

"We  haven't  read  Nordau  down  here,"  said  John. 
"Old  Tom  Martin's  favorite  work  is  'The  Descent 
of  Man.'  Miss  Tibbs  admires  Tupper,  and  'Beu- 
lah,'  and  some  of  us  possess  the  works  of  E.  P. 
Roe — and  why  not?" 

"Yes;  what  of  it,"  she  returned,  "since  you  es 
cape  Nordau?  I  think  the  conversation  we  hear 
from  the  other  windows  is  as  amusing  and  quite  as 
loud  as  most  of  that  I  hear  in  Rouen  during  the 
winter;  and  Rouen,  you  know,  is  just  like  any  other 
big  place  nowadays,  though  I  suppose  there  are 
Philadelphians,  for  instance,  who  would  be  slow  to 
believe  a  statement  like  that." 

"Oh,  but  they  are  not  all  of  Philadelphia — 
He  left  the  sentence,  smilingly. 

"And  yet  somebody  said,  'The  further  West  I 
travel  the  more  convinced  I  am  the  Wise  Men  came 
from  the  East.'  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "  'From'  is  the  important 
word  in  that.'* 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   141 

"It  was  a  girl  from  Southeast  Cottonbridge, 
Massachusetts,"  said  Helen,  "who  heard  I  was 
from  Indiana  and  asked  me  if  I  didn't  hate  to  live 
so  far  away  from  things."  There  was  a  pause,  while 
she  leaned  out  of  the  window  with  her  face  aside 
from  him.  Then  she  remarked  carelessly,  "I  met 
her  at  Winter  Harbor." 

"Do  you  go  to  Winter  Harbor?"  he  asked. 

"We  have  gone  there  every  summer  until  this 
one,  for  years.  Have  you  friends  who  go  there?" 

"I  had — once.  There  was  a  classmate  of  mine 
from  Rouen — 

"What  was  his  name?  Perhaps  I  know  him." 
She  stole  a  glance  at  him.  His  face  had  fallen  into 
sad  lines,  and  he  looked  like  the  man  who  had 
come  up  the  aisle  with  the  Hon.  Kedge  Halloway. 
A  few  moments  before  he  had  seemed  another  per 
son  entirely. 

"He's  forgotten  me,  I  dare  say.  I  haven't  seen 
him  for  seven  years;  and  that's  a  long  time,  you 
know.  Besides,  he's  'out  in  the  world,'  where 
remembering  is  harder.  Here  in  Plattville  we  don't 
forget." 

"Were  you  ever  at  Winter  Harbor?" 

"I  was — once.     I  spent  a  very  happy  day  there 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

long  ago,  when  you  must  have  been  a  little  girl. 
Were  you  there  in — 

"Listen!"  she  cried.  "The  procession  is  com 
ing.  Look  at  the  crowd!"  The  parade  had  seized 
a  psychological  moment. 

There  was  a  fanfare  of  trumpets  in  the  east.  Lines 
of  people  rushed  for  the  street,  and,  as  one  looked 
down  on  the  straw  hats  and  sunbonnets  and  many 
kinds  of  finer  head  apparel,  tossing  forward,  they 
seemed  like  surf  sweeping  up  the  long  beaches. 

She  was  coming  at  last.  The  boys  whooped  in 
the  middle  of  the  street;  some  tossed  their  arms  to 
heaven,  others  expressed  their  emotion  by  somer 
saults;  those  most  deeply  moved  walked  on  their 
hands.  In  the  distance  one  saw,  over  the  heads  of 
the  multitude,  tossing  banners  and  the  moving 
crests  of  triumphal  cars,  where  "cohorts  were  shin 
ing  in  purple  and  gold."  She  was  coming.  After  all 
the  false  alarms  and  disappointments,  she  was 


coming 


There  was  another  flourish  of  music.  Immedi 
ately  all  the  band  gave  sound,  and  then,  with  blare 
of  brass  and  the  crash  of  drums,  the  glory  of  the 
parade  burst  upon  Plattville.  Glory  in  the  utmost! 
The  resistless  impetus  of  the  march-time  music;  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   143 

flare  of  royal  banners,  of  pennons  on  the  breeze;  the 
smiling  of  beautiful  Court  Ladies  and  great,  silken 
Nobles;  the  swaying  of  howdahs  on  camel  and  ele 
phant,  and  the  awesome  shaking  of  the  earth  beneath 
the  elephant's  feet,  and  the  gleam  of  his  small  but 
devastating  eye  (every  one  declared  he  looked  the 
alarmed  Mr.  Snoddy  full  in  the  face  as  he  passed, 
and  Mr.  Snoddy  felt  not  at  all  reassured  when  Tom 
Martin  severely  hinted  that  it  was  with  the  threaten 
ing  glance  of  a  rival) ;  then  the  badinage  of  the  clown, 
creaking  along  in  his  donkey  cart;  the  terrific  reck 
lessness  of  the  spangled  hero  who  was  drawn  by 
in  a  cage  with  two  striped  tigers;  the  spirit  of  the 
prancing  steeds  that  drew  the  rumbling  chariots, 
and  the  grace  of  the  helmeted  charioteers;  the  splen 
dor  of  the  cars  and  the  magnificence  of  the  paintings 
with  which  they  were  adorned;  the  ecstasy  of  all 
this  glittering,  shining,  gorgeous  pageantry  needed 
even  more  than  walking  on  your  hands  to  express. 

Last  of  all  came  the  tooting  calliope,  followed  by 
swarms  of  boys  as  it  executed,  "Wait  till  the  clouds 
roll  by,  Jennie"  with  infinite  dash  and  gusto. 

When  it  was  gone,  Miss  Sherwood's  intent  gaze 
relaxed — she  had  been  looking  on  as  eagerly  as  any 
child, — and  she  turned  to  speak  to  Harkless  and  dis- 


144  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

covered  that  he  was  no  longer  in  the  room;  instead, 
she  found  Minnie  and  Mr.  Willetts,  whom  he  had 
summoned  from  another  window. 

"He  was  called  away,"  explained  Lige.  "He 
thought  he'd  be  back  before  the  parade  was  over, 
and  said  you  were  enjoying  it  so  much  he  didn't 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

"Called  away?"  she  said,  inquiringly. 

Minnie  laughed.  "Oh,  everybody  sends  for  Mr. 
Harkless." 

"It  was  a  farmer,  name  of  Bowlder,"  added  Mr. 
Willetts.  "His  son  Hartley's  drinking  again,  and 
there  ain't  any  one  but  Harkless  can  do  anything 
with  him.  You  let  him  tackle  a  sick  man  to  nurse, 
or  a  tipsy  one  to  handle,  and  I  tell  you,"  Mr.  Willetts 
went  on  with  enthusiasm,  "he  is  at  home.  It  beats 
me, — and  lots  of  people  don't  think  college  does  a 
man  any  good !  Why,  the  way  he  cured  old  Fis — 

"See!"  cried  Minnie,  loudly,  pointing  out  of  the 
window.  "Look  down  there.  Something's  hap 
pened." 

There  was  a  swirl  in  the  crowd  below.  Men 
were  running  around  a  corner  of  the  court-house, 
and  the  women  and  children  were  harking  after. 
They  went  so  fast,  and  there  were  so  many  of  them, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   145 

that  immediately  that  whole  portion  of  the  yard 
became  a  pushing,  tugging,  pulling,  squirming  jam 
of  people. 

"It's  on  the  other  side,"  said  Lige.  "We  can  see 
from  the  hall  window.  Come  quick,  before  these 
other  folks  fill  it  up." 

They  followed  him  across  the  building,  and  looked 
down  on  an  agitated  swarm  of  faces.  Five  men 
were  standing  on  the  entrance  steps  to  the  door 
below,  and  the  crowd  was  thickly  massed  beyond, 
leaving  a  little  semicircle  clear  about  the  steps. 
Those  behind  struggled  to  get  closer,  and  leaped  in 
the  air  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  was  going  on. 
Harkless  stood  alone  on  the  top  step,  his  hand  rest 
ing  on  the  shoulder  of  the  pale  and  contrite  and 
sobered  Hartley.  In  the  clear  space,  Jim  Bardlock 
was  standing  with  sheepishly  hanging  head,  and 
between  him  and  Harkless  were  the  two  gamblers  of 
the  walnut  shells.  The  journalist  held  in  his  hand 
the  implements  of  their  profession. 

"Give  it  all  up,"  he  was  saying  in  his  steady 
voice.  "You've  taken  eighty-six  dollars  from  this 
boy.  Hand  it  over." 

The  men  began  to  edge  closer  to  the  crowd,  giving 
little,  swift,  desperate,  searching  looks  from  left  to 


146  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

right,  and  right  to  left,  moving  nervously  about, 
like  weasels  in  a  trap.  "Close  up  there  tight,"  said 
Harkless,  sharply.  "Don't  let  them  out." 

"Wy  can't  we  git  no  square  treatment  here?" 
one  of  the  gamblers  whined;  but  his  eyes,  blazing 
with  rage,  belied  the  plaintive  passivity  of  his  tone. 
"We  been  running  no  skin.  Wy  d'ye  say  we  gotter 
give  up  our  own  money?  You  gotter  prove  it  was 
a  skin.  We  risked  our  money  fair." 

"Prove  it!  Come  up  here,  Eph  Watts.  Friends," 
the  editor  turned  to  the  crowd,  smiling,  "friends, 
here's  a  man  we  ran  out  of  town  once,  because  he 
knew  too  much  about  things  of  this  sort.  He's 
come  back  to  us  again  and  he's  here  to  stay.  He'll 
give  us  an  object-lesson  on  the  shell  game." 

"It's  pretty  simple,"  remarked  Mr.  Watts.  "The 
best  way  is  to  pick  up  the  ball  with  your  second 
finger  and  the  back  part  of  your  thumb  as  you  pre 
tend  to  lay  the  shell  down  over  it:  this  way."  He 
illustrated,  and  showed  several  methods  of  manipu 
lation,  with  professional  sang-froid;  and  as  he  made 
plain  the  easy  swindle  by  which  many  had  been 
duped  that  morning,  there  arose  an  angry  and 
threatening  murmur. 

"You  all  see,"  said  Harkless,  raising  his  voice  a 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   147 

little,  "what  a  simple  cheat  it  is — and  old  as 
Pharaoh.  Yet  a  lot  of  you  stood  around  and  lost 
your  own  money,  and  stared  like  idiots,  and  let 
Hartley  Bowlder  lose  eighty-bdd  dollars  on  a  shell 
racket,  and  not  one  of  you  lifted  a  hand.  How  hard 
did  you  work  for  what  these  two  cheap  crooks  took 
from  you?  Ah!"  he  cried,  "it  is  because  you  were 
greedy  that  they  robbed  you  so  easily.  You  know 
it's  true.  It's  when  you  want  to  get  something  for 
nothing  that  the  'confidence  men'  steal  the  money 
you  sweat  for  and  make  the  farmer  a  laughing 
stock.  And  you,  Jim  Bardlock,  Town  Marshal! — 
you,  who  confess  that  you  Vent  in  the  game  sixty 
cents'  worth,  yourself-  His  eyes  were  lit  with 
wrath  as  he  raised  his  accusing  hand  and  levelled  it 
at  the  unhappy  municipal. 

The  Town  Marshal  smiled  uneasily  and  deprecat- 
ingly  about  him,  and,  meeting  only  angry  glances, 
hearing  only  words  of  condemnation,  he  passed  his 
hand  unsteadily  over  his  fat  mustache,  shifted  from 
one  leg  to  the  other  and  back  again,  looked  up, 
looked  down,  and  then,  an  amiable  and  pleasure- 
loving  man,  beholding  nothing  but  accusation  and 
anger  in  heaven  and  earth,  and  wishing  nothing 
more  than  to  sink  into  the  waters  under  the  earth, 


148  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

but  having  no  way  of  reaching  them,  finding  his 
troubles  quite  unbearable,  and  unable  to  meet  the 
manifold  eye  of  man,  he  sought  relief  after  the 
unsagacious  fashion  of  a  larger  bird  than  he.  His 
burly  form  underwent  a  series  of  convulsions  not 
unlike  sobs,  and  he  shut  his  eyes  tightly  and  held 
them  so,  presenting  a  picture  of  misery  unequalled 
in  the  memory  of  any  spectator.  Harkless's  out 
stretched  hand  began  to  shake.  "You!"  he  tried 
to  continue — "you,  a  man  elected  to — 

There  came  from  the  crowd  the  sound  of  a  sad, 
high-keyed  voice,  drawling:  "That's  a  nice  vest 
Jim's  got  on,  but  it  ain't  hardly  the  feathers  fitten 
for  an  ostrich,  is  it?" 

The  editor's  gravity  gave  way;  he  broke  into  a 
ringing  laugh  and  turned  again  to  the  shell-men. 
"Give  up  the  boy's  money.  Hurry." 

"Step  down  here  and  git  it,"  said  the  one  who 
had  spoken. 

There  was  a  turbulent  motion  in  the  crowd,  and 
a  cry  arose,  "Run  'em  out!  Ride  'em  on  a  rail! 
Tar  and  feathers!  Run  'em  out  o'  town!" 

"I  wouldn't  dilly-dally  long  if  I  were  you,"  said 
Harkless,  and  his  advice  seemed  good  to  the  shell- 
men.  A  roll  of  bills,  which  he  counted  and  turned 


THE.  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   149 

over  to  the  elder  Bowlder,  was  sullenly  placed  in  his 
hand.  The  fellow  who  had  not  yet  spoken  clutched 
the  journalist's  sleeve  with  his  dirty  hand. 

"We  hain't  done  wit'  youse,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 
"Don't  belief  it,  not  fer  a  minute,  see?" 

The  Town  Marshal  opened  his  eyes  briskly,  and 
placing  a  hand  on  each  of  the  gamblers,  said:  "I 
hereby  do  arrest  your  said  persons,  and  declare  you 
my  prisoners."  The  cry  rose  again,  louder:  "Run 
'em  out!  String  'em  up!  Hang  them!  Hang 
them!"  and  a  forward  rush  was  made. 

"This  way,  Jim.  Be  quick,"  said  Harkless, 
quietly,  bending  down  and  jerking  one  of  the 
gamblers  half-way  up  the  steps.  "Get  through  the 
hall  to  the  other  side  and  then  run  them  to  the 
lock-up.  No  one  will  stop  you  that  way.  Watts 
and  I  will  hold  this  door."  Bardlock  hustled  his 
prisoners  through  the  doorway,  and  the  crowd 
pushed  up  the  steps,  while  Harkless  struggled  to 
keep  the  vestibule  clear  until  Watts  got  the  double 
doors  closed.  "Stand  back,  here!"  he  cried;  "it's 
all  over.  Don't  be  foolish.  The  law  is  good  enough 
for  us.  Stand  back,  will  you!" 

He  was  laughing  a  little,  shoving  them  back  with 
open  hand  and  elbow,  when  a  small,  compact  group 


150  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

of  men  suddenly  dashed  up  the  steps  together,  and  a 
heavy  stick  swung  out  over  their  heads.  A  straw 
hat  with  a  gay  ribbon  sailed  through  the  air.  The 
journalist's  long  arms  went  out  swiftly  from  his  body 
in  several  directions,  the  hands  not  open,  but 
clenched  and  hard.  The  next  instant  he  and  Mr. 
Watts  stood  alone  on  the  steps,  and  a  man  with  a 
bleeding,  blaspheming  mouth  dropped  his  stick  and 
tried  to  lose  himself  in  the  crowd.  Mr.  Watts  was 
returning  something  he  had  not  used  to  his  hip- 
pocket. 

"Prophets  of  Israel!"  exclaimed  William  Todd, 
ruefully,  "it  wasn't  Eph  Watts's  pistol.  Did  you 
see  Mr.  Harkless?  I  was  up  on  them  steps  when 
he  begun.  I  don't  believe  he  needs  as  much  takin' 
care  of  as  we  think." 

"Wasn't  it  one  of  them  Cross-Roads  devils  that 
knocked  his  hat  off?"  asked  Judd  Bennett.  "I 
thought  I  see  Bob  Skillett  run  up  with  a  club." 

Harkless  threw  open  the  doors  behind  him;  the 
hall  was  empty.  "You  may  come  in  now,"  he  said. 
"This  isn't  my  court-house." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

GLAD  AFTERNOON:   THE  GIRL  BY  THE  BLUE 
TENT-POLE 

THEY  walked  slowly  back  along  the  pike 
toward  the  brick  house.  The  white-ruffed 
fennel  reached  up  its  dusty  yellow  heads 
to  touch  her  skirts  as  she  passed,  and  then  drooped, 
satisfied,  against  the  purple  iron-weed  at  the  road 
side.  In  the  noonday  silence  no  cricket  chirped  nor 
locust  raised  its  lorn  monotone;  the  tree  shadows 
mottled  the  road  with  blue,  and  the  level  fields 
seemed  to  pant  out  a  dazzling  breath,  the  trans 
parent  "heat-waves"  that  danced  above  the  low 
corn  and  green  wheat. 

He  was  stooping  very  much  as  they  walked;  he 
wanted  to  be  told  that  he  could  look  at  her  for 
a  thousand  years.  Her  face  was  rarely  and  exqui 
sitely  modelled,  but,  perhaps,  just  now  the  salient 
characteristic  of  her  beauty  (for  the  salient  charac 
teristic  seemed  to  be  a  different  thing  at  different 
times)  was  the  coloring,  a  delicate  glow  under  the 

white  skin,   that  bewitched  him  in   its  seeming  a 

151 


152  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

reflection  of  the  rich  benediction  of  the  noonday 
sun  that  blazed  overhead. 

Once  he  had  thought  the  way  to  the  Briscoe 
homestead  rather  a  long  walk;  but  now  the  distance 
sped  malignantly;  and  strolled  they  never  so  slow,  it 
was  less  than  a  "young  bird's  flutter  from  a  wood." 
With  her  acquiescence  he  rolled  a  cigarette,  and  she 
began  to  hum  lightly  the  air  of  a  song,  a  song  of  an 
ineffably  gentle,  slow  movement. 

That,  and  a  reference  of  the  morning,  and,  per 
haps,  the  smell  of  his  tobacco  mingling  with  the 
fragrance  of  her  roses,  awoke  again  the  keen  remi 
niscence  of  the  previous  night  within  him.  Clearly 
outlined  before  him  rose  the  high,  green  slopes 
and  cool  cliff-walls  of  the  coast  of  Maine,  while 
his  old  self  lazily  watched  the  sharp  little  waves 
through  half-closed  lids,  the  pale  smoke  of  his 
cigarette  blowing  out  under  the  rail  of  «a  waxen 
deck  where  he  lay  cushioned.  And  again  a  woman 
pelted  his  face  with  handfuls  of  rose-petals  and 
cried:  "Up  lad  and  at  'em!  Yonder  is  Winter 
Harbor."  Again  he  sat  in  the  oak-raftered  Casino, 
breathless  with  pleasure,  and  heard  a  young  girl  sing 
the  "Angel's  Serenade,"  a  young  girl  who  looked 
so  bravely  unconscious  of  the  big,  hushed  crowd 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   153 

that  listened,  looked  so  pure  and  bright  and  gentle 
and  good,  that  he  had  spoken  of  her  as  "Sir  Gala 
had's  little  sister."  He  recollected  he  had  been 
much  taken  with  this  child;  but  he  had  not  thought 
of  her  from  that  time  to  this,  he  supposed;  had 
almost  forgotten  her.  No !  Her  face  suddenly  stood 
out  to  his  view  as  though  he  saw  her  with  his 
physical  eye — a  sweet  and  vivacious  child's  face 
with  light-brown  hair  and  gray  eyes  and  a  short 
upper  lip.  .  .  .  And  the  voice.  .  .  . 

He  stopped  short  and  struck  his  palms  together. 
"You  are  Tom  Meredith's  little  cousin!" 

"The  Great  Harkless!"  she  answered,  and  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  him. 

"I  remember  you!" 

"Isn't  it  time?" 

"Ah,  but  I  never  forgot  you,"  he  cried.  "I 
thought  I  had.  I  didn't  know  who  it  was  I  was 
remembering.  I  thought  it  was  fancy,  and  it  was 
memory.  I  never  forgot  your  voice,  singing — and 
I  remembered  your  face  too;  though  I  thought  I 
didn't."  He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "That  was 
why- 

"Tom  Meredith  has  not  forgotten  you,"  she^  said, 
as  he  paused. 


154  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Would  you  mind  shaking  hands  once  more?" 
he  asked. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  again.  "With  all  my 
heart.  Why?" 

"I'm  making  a  record  at  it.     Thank  you." 

"They  called  me  'Sir  Galahad's  little  sister'  all 
one  summer  because  the  Great  John  Harkless  called 
me  that.  You  danced  with  me  in  the  evening." 

"Did  I?" 

"Ah,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  "you  were  too 
busy  being  in  love  with  Mrs.  Van  Skuyt  to  remember 
a  waltz  with  only  me!  I  was  allowed  to  meet  you 
as  a  reward  for  singing  my  very  best,  and  you — 
you  bowed  with  the  indulgence  of  a  grandfather, 
and  asked  me  to  dance." 

"Like  a  grandfather?  How  young  I  was  then! 
How  time  changes  us!" 

"I'm  afraid  my  conversation  did  not  make  a  great 
impression  upon  you,"  she  continued. 

"But  it  did.  I  am  remembering  very  fast.  If 
you  will  wait  a  moment,  I  will  tell  you  some  of  the 
things  you  said." 

The  girl  laughed  merrily.  Whenever  she  laughed 
he  realized  that  it  was  becoming  terribly  difficult 
not  to  tell  her  how  adorable  she  was.  "I  wouldn't 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   155 

risk  it,  if  I  were  you,"  she  warned  him,  "because  I 
didn't  speak  to  you  at  all.  I  shut  my  lips  tight  and 
trembled  all  over  every  bit  of  the  time  I  was  dancing 
with  you.  I  did  not  sleep  that  night,  because  I  was 
so  unhappy,  wondering  what  the  Great  Harkless 
would  think  of  me.  I  knew  he  thought  me  unutter 
ably  stupid  because  I  couldn't  talk  to  him.  I 
wanted  to  send  him  word  that  I  knew  I  had  bored 
him.  I  couldn't  bear  for  him  not  to  know  that  I 
knew  I  had.  But  he  was  not  thinking  of  me  in  any 
way.  He  had  gone  to  sea  again  in  a  big  boat,  the 
ungrateful  pirate,  cruising  with  Mrs.  Van  Skuyt." 

"How  time  does  change  us!"  said  John.  "You 
are  wrong,  though;  I  did  think  of  you;  I  have 
al " 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted,  tossing  her  head  in  airy 
travesty  of  the  stage  coquette,  "you  think  so — I 
mean  you  say  so — now.  Away  with  you  and  your 
blarneying!" 

And  so  they  went  through  the  warm  noontide, 
and  little  he  cared  for  the  heat  that  wilted  the  fat 
mullein  leaves  and  made  the  barefoot  boy,  who 
passed  by,  skip  gingerly  through  the  burning  dust 
with  anguished  mouth  and  watery  eye.  Little  he 


156  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

knew  of  the  locust  that  suddenly  whirred  his  mills 
of  shrillness  in  the  maple-tree,  and  sounded  so  hot, 
hot,  hot;  or  those  others  that  railed  at  the  country 
quiet  from  the  dim  shade  around  the  brick  house;  or 
even  the  rain-crow  that  sat  on  the  fence  and  swore 
to  them  in  the  face  of  a  sunny  sky  that  they  should 
see  rain  ere  the  day  were  done. 

Little  the  young  man  recked  of  what  he  ate  at 
Judge  Briscoe's  good  noon  dinner:  chicken  wing 
and  young  roas'n'-ear;  hot  rolls  as  light  as  the  fluff 
of  a  summer  cloudlet;  and  honey  and  milk;  and 
apple-butter  flavored  like  spices  of  Arabia;  and 
fragrant,  flaky  cherry-pie;  and  cool,  rich,  yellow 
cream.  Lige  Willetts  was  a  lover,  yet  he  said  he 
asked  no  better  than  to  just  go  on  eating  that  cherry- 
pie  till  a  sweet  death  overtook  him;  but  railroad 
sandwiches  and  restaurant  chops  might  have  been 
set  before  Harkless  for  all  the  difference  it  would 
have  made  to  him. 

At  no  other  time  is  a  man's  feeling  of  companion 
ship  with  a  woman  so  strong  as  when  he  sits  at  table 
with  her — not  at  a  "decorated"  and  becatered  and 
bewaitered  table,  but  at  a  homely,  appetizing,  whole 
some  home  table  like  old  Judge  Briscoe's.  The 
very  essence  of  the  thing  is  domesticity,  and  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   157 

implication  is  utter  confidence  and  liking.  There  are 
few  greater  dangers  for  a  bachelor.  An  insinuating 
imp  perches  on  his  shoulder,  and,  softly  tickling  the 
bachelor's  ear  with  the  feathers  of  an  arrow-shaft, 
whispers:  "Pretty  nice,  isn't  it,  eh?  Rather  pleas 
ant  to  have  that  girl  sitting  there,  don't  you  think? 
Enjoy  having  her  notice  your  butter-plate  was 
empty?  Think  it  exhilarating  to  hand  her  those 
rolls?  Looks  nice,  doesn't  she?  Says  'Thank  you' 
rather  prettily?  Makes  your  lonely  breakfast  seem 
mighty  dull,  doesn't  it?  How  would  you  like  to 
have  her  pour  your  coffee  for  you  to-morrow,  my 
boy?  How  would  it  seem  to  have  such  pleasant  com 
pany  all  the  rest  of  your  life?  Pretty  cheerful,  eh?" 
When  Miss  Sherwood  passed  the  editor  the  apple- 
butter,  the  casual,  matter-of-course  way  she  did  it 
entranced  him  in  a  strange,  exquisite  wonderment. 
He  did  not  set  the  dish  down  when  she  put  it  in  his 
hand,  but  held  it  straight  out  before  him,  just  look 
ing  at  it,  until  Mr.  Willetts  had  a  dangerous  choking 
fit,  for  which  Minnie  was  very  proud  of  Lige;  no  one 
could  have  suspected  that  it  was  the  veil  of  laughter. 
When  Helen  told  John  he  really  must  squeeze  a 
lemon  into  his  iced  tea,  he  felt  that  his  one  need  in 
life  was  to  catch  her  up  in  his  arms  and  run  away 


158  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

with  her,  not  anywhere  in  particular,  but  just  run 
and  run  and  run  away. 

After  dinner  they  went  out  to  the  veranda  and 
the  gentlemen  smoked.  The  judge  set  his  chair 
down  on  the  ground,  tilted  back  in  it  with  his  feet 
on  the  steps,  and  blew  a  wavery  domed  city  up  in 
the  air.  He  called  it  solid  comfort.  He  liked  to  sit 
out  from  under  the  porch  roof,  he  said;  he  wanted  to 
see  more  of  the  sky.  The  others  moved  their  chairs 
down  to  join  him  in  the  celestial  vision.  There  had 
blown  across  the  heaven  a  feathery,  thin  cloud  or 
two,  but  save  for  these,  there  was  nothing  but 
glorious  and  tender,  brilliant  blue.  It  seemed  so 
clear  and  close  one  marvelled  the  little  church  spire 
in  the  distance  did  not  pierce  it;  yet,  at  the  same 
time,  the  eye  ascended  miles  and  miles  into  warm, 
shimmering  ether.  Far  away  two  buzzards  swung 
slowly  at  anchor,  half-way  to  the  sun. 

"  *O  bright,  translucent,  cerulean  hue, 
Let  my  wide  wings  drift  on  in  you,' " 

said  Harkless,  pointing  them  out  to  Helen. 

"You  seem  to  get  a  good  deal  of  fun  out  of  this 
kind  of  weather,"  observed  Lige,  as  he  wiped  his 
brow  and  shifted  his  chair  out  of  the  sun. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   159 

"I  expect  you  don't  get  such  skies  as  this  up  in 
Rouen,"  said  the  judge,  looking  at  the  girl  from 
between  half -closed  eyelids. 

"It's  the  same  Indiana  sky,  I  think,"  she  answered. 

"I  guess  maybe  in  the  city  you  don't  see  as 
much  of  it,  or  think  as  much  about  it.  Yes,  they're 
the  Indiana  skies,"  the  old  man  went  on. 

Skies  as  blue 
As  the  eyes  of  children  when  they  smile  at  you.' 

"There  aren't  any  others  anywhere  that  ever 
seemed  much  like  them  to  me.  They've  been  com 
pany  for  me  all  my  life.  I  don't  think  there  are  any 
others  half  as  beautiful,  and  I  know  there  aren't  any 
as  sociable.  They  were  always  so."  He  sighed 
gently,  and  Miss  Sherwood  fancied  his  wife  must 
have  found  the  Indiana  skies  as  lovely  as  ke  had, 
in  the  days  of  long  ago.  "Seems  to  me  they  are  the 
softest  and  bluest  and  kindest  in  the  world." 

"I  think  they  are,"  said  Helen,  "and  they  are 
more  beautiful  than  the  'Italian  skies,'  though  I 
doubt  if  many  of  us  Hoosiers  realize  it;  and — 
certainly  no  one  else  does." 

The  old  man  leaned  over  and  patted  her  hand. 
Harkless  gasped.  "'Us  Hoosiers!''  chuckled  the 


160  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

judge.  "You're  a  great  Hoosier,  young  lady! 
How  much  of  your  life  have  you  spent  in  the  State? 
'UsHoosiers!'" 

"But  I'm  going  to  be  a  good  one,"  she  answered, 
gaily,  "and  if  I'm  good  enough,  when  I  grow  up 
maybe  I'll  be  a  great  one." 

The  buckboard  had  been  brought  around,  and  the 
four  young  people  climbed  in,  Harkless  driving. 
Before  they  started,  the  judge,  standing  on  the 
horse-block  in  front  of  the  gate,  leaned  over  and 
patted  Miss  Sherwood's  hand  again.  Harkless 
gathered  up  the  reins. 

"You'll  make  a  great  Hoosier,  all  right,"  said  the 
old  man,  beaming  upon  the  girl.  "You  needn't 
worry  about  that,  I  guess,  my  dear." 

When  he  said  "my  dear,"  Harkless  spoke  to  the 
horses. 

"Wait,"  said  the  judge,  still  holding  the  girl's 
hand.  "You'll  make  a  great  Hoosier,  some  day; 
don't  fret.  You're  already  a  very  beautiful  one." 
Then  he  bent  his  white  head  and  kissed  her,  gal 
lantly.  John  said:  "Good  afternoon,  judge";  the 
whip  cracked  like  a  pistol-shot,  and  the  buckboard 
dashed  off  in  a  cloud  of  dust. 

"Every  once  in  a  while,  Harkless,"  the  old  fellow 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   161 

:d  aft< 
the  team/ 


p 
called  after  them,  "y°u  must  remember  to  look  at 


The  enormous  white  tent  was  filled  with  a  hazy 
yellow  light,  the  warm,  dusty,  mellow  light  that 
thrills  the  rejoicing  heart  because  it  is  found 
nowhere  in  the  world  except  in  the  tents  of  a  circus 
—the  canvas-filtered  sunshine  and  sawdust  atmos 
phere  of  show  day.  Through  the  entrance  the 
crowd  poured  steadily,  coming  from  the  absorp 
tions  of  the  wild-animal  tent  to  feast  upon  greater 
wonders;  passing  around  the  sawdust  ellipse  that 
contained  two  soul-cloying  rings,  to  find  seats  whence 
they  might  behold  the  splendors  so  soon  to  be 
unfolded.  Every  one  who  was  not  buying  the 
eternal  lemonade  was  eating  something;  and  the 
faces  of  children  shone  with  gourmand  rapture; 
indeed,  very  often  the  eyes  of  them  were  all  you 
saw,  half-closed  in  palate-gloating  over  a  huge  apple, 
or  a  bulky  oblong  of  popcorn,  partly  unwrapped 
from  its  blue  tissue-paper  cover;  or  else  it  might  be 
a  luscious  pink  crescent  of  watermelon,  that  left  its 
ravisher  stained  and  dripping  to  the  brow. 

Here,  as  in  the  morning,  the  hawkers  raised  their 
cries  in  unintermittent  shrillness,  offering  to  the 


162  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

musically  inclined  the  Happy  Evenings  Song-book, 
alleged  to  contain  those  treasures,  all  the  latest  songs 
of  the  day,  or  presented  for  the  consideration  of  the 
humorous  the  Lawrence  Lapearl  Joke-book,  setting 
forth  in  full  the  art  of  comical  entertainment  and 
repartee.  (Schofields'  Henry  bought  two  of  these 
— no  doubt  on  the  principle  that  two  were  twice 
as  instructive  as  one — intending  to  bury  himself 
in  study  and  do  battle  with  Tom  Martin  on  his 
own  ground.) 

Here  swayed  the  myriad  palm-leaf  fans;  here 
paraded  blushing  youth  and  rosy  maiden,  more 
relentlessly  arm-in-arm  than  ever;  here  crept  the 
octogenarian,  Mr.  Bodeffer,  shaking  on  cane  and  the 
shoulder  of  posterity;  here  waddled  Mr.  Snoddy, 
who  had  hurried  through  the  animal  tent  for  fear 
of  meeting  the  elephant;  here  marched  sturdy  yeo 
men  and  stout  wives;  here  came  William  Todd  and 
his  Anna  Belle,  the  good  William  hushed  with  the 
embarrassments  of  love,  but  looking  out  warily  with 
the  white  of  his  eye  for  Mr.  Martin,  and  determined 
not  to  sit  within  a  hundred  yards  of  him;  here  rolled 
in  the  orbit  of  habit  the  bacchanal,  Mr.  Wilkerson, 
who  politely  answered  in  kind  all  the  uncouth  roar 
ings  and  guttural  ejaculations  of  jungle  and  fen  that 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   163 

came  from  the  animal  tent;  in  brief,  here  came  with 
lightest  hearts  the  population  of  Carlow  and  part 
of  Amo. 

Helen  had  found  a  true  word :  it  was  a  big  family. 
Jim  Bardlock,  broadly  smiling  and  rejuvenated, 
shorn  of  depression,  paused  in  front  of  the  "reserve" 
seats,  with  Mrs.  Bardlock  on  his  arm,  and  called 
loudly  to  a  gentleman  on  a  tier  about  the  level 
of  Jim's  head:  "How  are  ye?  I  reckon  we  were 
a  little  too  smart  fer  'em,  this  morning,  huh?"  Five 
or  six  hundred  people — every  one  within  hearing — 
turned  to  look  at  Jim;  but  the  gentleman  addressed 
was  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  lady  and  did  not 
notice. 

"Hi!  Hi,  there!  Say!  Mr.  Harkless!"  bellowed 
Jim,  informally.  The  people  turned  to  look  at 
Harkless.  His  attention  was  arrested  and  his  cheek 
grew  red. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  a  little  confused  and  a 
good  deal  annoyed. 

"I  don't  hear  what  ye  say,"  shouted  Jim,  putting 
his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"What  is  it?"  repeated  the  young  man.  "I'll 
kill  that  fellow  to-night,"  he  added  to  Lige  Willetts. 
"Some  one  ought  to  have  done  it  long  ago." 


164  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"What?" 

"/  say,  WHAT  is  IT?" 

"I  only  wanted  to  say  me  and  you  certainly  did 
fool  these  here  Hoosiers  this  morning,  huh?  Hustled 
them  two  fellers  through  the  court-house,  and 
nobody  never  thought  to  slip  round  to  the  other 
door  and  head  us  off.  Ha,  ha!  We  were  jest  a 
leetle  too  many  fer  'em,  huh?" 

From  an  upper  tier  of  seats  the  rusty  length  of 
Mr.  Martin  erected  itself  joint  by  joint,  like  an 
extension  ladder,  and  he  peered  down  over  the  gaping 
faces  at  the  Town  Marshal.  "Excuse  me,"  he  said 
sadly  to  those  behind  him,  but  his  dry  voice  pene 
trated  everywhere,  "I  got  up  to  hear  Jim  say  'We' 
again." 

Mr.  Bardlock  joined  in  the  laugh  against  himself, 
and  proceeded  with  his  wife  to  some  seats,  forty  or 
fifty  feet  distant.  When  he  had  settled  himself  com 
fortably,  he  shouted  over  cheerfully  to  the  unhappy 
editor:  "Them  shell-men  got  it  in  fer  you,  Mr. 
Harkless." 

"Ain't  that  fool  shet  up  yit?"  snarled  the  aged 
Mr.  Bodeffer,  indignantly.  He  was  sitting  near  the 
young  couple,  and  the  expression  of  his  sympathy 
was  distinctly  audible  to  them  and  many  others. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   165 

"(5ot  no  more  regards  than  a  brazing  calf — dis- 
turbin'  a  feller  with  his  sweetheart!" 

"The  both  of  'em  says  they're  goin'  to  do  fer 
you,"  bleated  Mr.  Bardlock.  "Swear  they'll  git 
their  evens  with  ye." 

Mr.  Martin  rose  again.  "Don't  git  scared  and 
leave  town,  Mr.  Harkless,"  he  called  out;  "Jim'll 
protect  you." 

Vastly  to  the  young  man's  relief  the  band  began 
to  play,  and  the  equestrians  and  equestriennes 
capered  out  from  the  dressing-tent  for  the  "Grand 
Entrance,"  and  the  performance  commenced. 
Through  the  long  summer  afternoon  it  went  on: 
wonders  of  horsemanship  and  horse womanship; 
hair-raising  exploits  on  wires,  tight  and  slack;  giddy 
tricks  on  the  high  trapeze;  feats  of  leaping  and 
tumbling  in  the  rings;  while  the  tireless  musicians 
blatted  inspiringly  through  it  all,  only  pausing  long 
enough  to  allow  that  uproarious  jester,  the  clown, 
to  ask  the  ring-master  what  he  would  do  if  a  young 
lady  came  up  and  kissed  him  on  the  street,  and  to 
exploit  his  hilarities  during  the  short  intervals  of 
rest  for  the  athletes. 

When  it  was  over,  John  and  Helen  found  them 
selves  in  the  midst  of  a  densely  packed  crowd,  and 


166  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

separated  from  Miss  Briscoe  and  Lige.  People 
were  pushing  and  shoving,  and  he  saw  her  face 
grow  pale.  He  realized  with  a  pang  of  sympathy 
how  helpless  he  would  feel  if  he  were  as  small  as 
she,  and  at  his  utmost  height  could  only  see  big, 
suffocating  backs  and  huge  shoulders  pressing  down 
from  above.  He  was  keeping  them  from  crowding 
heavily  upon  her  with  all  his  strength,  and  a  royal 
feeling  of  protectiveness  came  over  him.  She  was 
so  little.  And  yet,  without  the  remotest  hint  of 
hardness,  she  gave  him  such  a  distinct  impression  of 
poise  and  equilibrium,  she  seemed  so  able  to  meet 
anything  that  might  come,  to  understand  it — even  to 
laugh  at  it — so  Americanly  capable  and  sure  of  the 
event,  that  in  spite  of  her  pale  cheek  he  could  not 
feel  quite  so  protective  as  he  wished  to  feel. 

He  managed  to  get  her  to  one  of  the  tent-poles, 
and  placed  her  with  her  back  to  it.  Then  he  set  one 
of  his  own  hands  against  it  over  her  head,  braced 
himself  and  stood,  keeping  a  little  space  about  her, 
ruggedly  letting  the  crowd  surge  against  him  as  it 
would;  no  one  should  touch  her  in  rough  carelessness. 

"Thank  you.  It  was  rather  trying  in  there,"  she 
said,  and  looked  up  into  his  eyes  with  a  divine 
gratitude. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   167 

"Please  don't  do  that,"  he  answered  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Do  what?" 

"Look  like  that." 

She  not  only  looked  like  that,  but  more  so. 
"Young  man,  young  man,"  she  said,  "I  fear  you're 
wishful  of  turning  a  girl's  head." 

The  throng  was  thick  around  them,  garrulous  and 
noisy,  but  they  two  were  more  richly  alone  together, 
to  his  appreciation,  than  if  they  stood  on  some  far 
satellite  of  Mars.  He  was  not  to  forget  that  moment, 
and  he  kept  the  picture  of  her,  as  she  leaned  against 
the  big  blue  tent-pole,  there,  in  his  heart:  the  clear 
gray  eyes  lifted  to  his,  the  delicate  face  with  the 
color  stealing  back  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  brave 
little  figure  that  had  run  so  straight  to"  him  out  of 
the  night  shadows.  There  was  something 
about  her,  and  in  the  moment,  that  suddenly 
touched  him  with  a  saddening  sweetness  too  keen 
to  be  borne;  the  forget-me-not  finger  of  the  fly 
ing  hour  that  could  not  come  again  was  laid 
on  his  soul,  and  he  felt  the  tears  start  from  his 
heart  on  their  journey  to  his  eyes.  He  knew 
that  he  Should  always  remember  that  moment. 
She  knew  it,  too.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  cheek 


168  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  turned  away  from  him  a  little  tremulously. 
Both  were  silent. 

They  had  been  together  since  early  morning. 
Plattville  was  proud  of  him.  Many  a  friendly 
glance  from  the  folk  who  jostled  about  them  favored 
his  suit  and  wished  both  of  them  well,  and  many  lips, 
opening  to  speak  to  Harkless  in  passing,  closed 
when  their  owners  (more  tactful  than  Mr.  Bardlock) 
looked  a  second  time. 

Old  Tom  Martin,  still  perched  alone  on  his  high 
seat,  saw  them  standing  by  the  tent-pole,  and 
watched  them  from  under  his  rusty  hat  brim.  "I 
reckon  it's  be'n  three  or  four  thousand  years  since  I 
was  young,"  he  sighed  to  himself;  then,  pushing  his 
hat  still  further  down  over  his  eyes:  "I  don't  believe 
I'd  ort  to  rightly  look  on  at  that."  He  sighed  again 
as  he  rose,  and  gently  spoke  the  name  of  his  dead 
wife:  "Marjie, — it's  be'n  lonesome,  sometimes.  I 
reckon  you're  mighty  tired  waitin'  for  me,  ever 
since  sixty -four — yet  maybe  not;  Ulysses  S.  Grant's 
over  on  your  side  now,  and  perhaps  you've  got 
acquainted  with  him;  you  always  thought  a  good 
deal  more  of  him  than  you  did  of  me." 

"Do  you  see  that  tall  old  man  up  there?"  said 
Helen,  nodding  her  head  toward  Martin.  "I 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   169 

think  I  should  like  to  know  him.  I'm  sure  I  like 
him." 

"That  is  old  Tom  Martin." 

"I  know." 

"I  was  sorry  and  ashamed  about  all  that  con- 
spicuousness  and  shouting.  It  must  have  been  very 
unpleasant  for  you;  it  must  have  been  so,  for  a 
stranger.  Please  try  to  forgive  me  for  letting  you 
in  for  it." 

"But  I  liked  it.  It  was  'all  in  the  family,'  and  it 
was  so  jolly  and  good-natured,  and  that  dear  old 
man  was  so  bright.  Do  you  know,"  she  said  softly, 
"I  don't  think  I'm  such  a  stranger — I — I  think  I 
love  all  these  people  a  great  deal — in  spite  of  having 
known  them  only  two  days." 

At  that  a  wild  exhilaration  possessed  him.  He 
wanted  to  shake  hands  with  everybody  in  the  tent, 
to  tell  them  all  that  he  loved  them  with  his  whole 
heart,  but,  what  was  vastly  more  importnat,  she 
loved  them  a  great  deal — in  spite  of  having  known 
them  only  two  days! 

He  made  the  horses  prance  on  the  homeward 
drive,  and  once,  when  she  told  him  that  she  had 
read  a  good  many  of  his  political  columns  in  the 
"Herald,"  he  ran  them  into  a  fence.  After  this  it 


170  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

occurred  to  him  that  they  were  nearing  their  des 
tination  and  had  come  at  a  perversely  sharp  gait; 
so  he  held  the  roans  down  to  a  snail's  pace  (if  it  be 
true  that  a  snail's  natural  gait  is  not  a  trot)  for  the 
rest  of  the  way,  while  they  talked  of  Tom  Meredith 
and  books  and  music,  and  discovered  that  they  dif 
fered  widely  about  Ibsen. 

They  found  Mr.  Fisbee  in  the  yard,  talking  to 
Judge  Briscoe.  As  they  drove  up,  and  before  the 
horses  had  quite  stopped,  Helen  leaped  to  the 
ground  and  ran  to  the  old  scholar  with  both  her 
hands  outstretched  to  him.  He  looked  timidly  at 
her,  and  took  the  hands  she  gave  him;  then  he  pro 
duced  from  his  pocket  a  yellow  telegraph  envelope, 
watching  her  anxiously  as  she  received  it.  How 
ever,  she  seemed  to  attach  no  particular  importance 
to  it,  and,  instead  of  opening  it,  leaned  toward  him, 
still  holding  one  of  his  hands. 

"These  awful  old  men!"  Harkless  groaned  inwardly 
as  he  handed  the  horses  over  to  the  judge.  "I  dare 
say  he'll  kiss  her,  too."  But,  when  the  editor  and  Mr. 
Willetts  had  gone,  it  was  Helen  who  kissed  Fisbee. 

"They're  coming  out  to  spend  the  evening,  aren't 
they?"  asked  Briscoe,  nodding  to  the  young  men  as 
they  set  off  down  the  road. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   171 

"Lige/lias  to  come  whether  he  wants  to  or  not," 
Minnie  laughed,  rather  consciously;  "It's  his  turn 
to-night  to  look  after  Mr.  Harkless." 

"I  guess  he  won't  mind  coming,"  said  the  judge. 

"Well,"  returned  his  daughter,  glancing  at  Helen, 
who  stood  apart,  reading  the  telegram  to  Fisbee,  "I 
know  if  he  follows  Mr.  Harkless  he'll  get  here  pretty 
soon  after  supper — as  soon  as  the  moon  comes  up, 
anyway." 

The  editor  of  the  "Herald"  was  late  to  his  sup 
per  that  evening.  It  was  dusk  when  he  reached 
the  hotel,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  history,  a  gentle 
man  sat  down  to  meat  in  that  house  of  entertainment 
in  evening  dress.  There  was  no  one  in  the  dining- 
room  when  he  went  in;  the  other  boarders  had  fin 
ished,  and  it  was  Cynthia's  "evening  out,"  but  the 
landlord  came  and  attended  to  his  guests'  wants 
himself,  and  chatted  with  him  while  he  ate. 

"There's  a  picture  of  Henry  Clay,"  remarked 
Landis,  in  obvious  relevancy  to  his  companion's 
attire,  "there's  a  picture  of  Henry  Clay  somewheres 
about  the  house  in  a  swallow-tail  coat.  Governor 
Ray  spoke  here  in  one  in  early  times,  Bodeffer  says, 
except  it  was  higher  built  up  'n  yourn  about  the 
collar,  and  had  brass  buttons,  I  think.  Ole  man 


172  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Wimby  was  here  to-night,"  the  landlord  continued, 
changing  the  subject.  "He  waited  around  fer  ye 
a  good  while.  He's  be'n  mighty  wrought  up  sence 
the  trouble  this  morning,  an'  wanted  to  see  ye  bad. 
I  don't  know  'f  you  seen  it,  but  that  feller  't  knocked 
your  hat  off  was  mighty  near  tore  to  pieces  in  the 
crowd  before  he  got  away.  'Seems  some  the  boys 
re-co<jr-nized  him  as  one  the  Cross-Roads  Skillets, 
and  sicked  the  dogs  on  him,  and  he  had  a  pretty 
mean  time  of  it.  Wimby  says  the  Cross-Roads  folks 
'11  be  worse  'n  ever,  and,  says  he,  'Tell  him  to  stick 
close  to  town,'  says  he.  'They'll  do  anything  to  git 
him  now,'  says  he,  'and  resk  anything.'  I  told  him 
you  wouldn't  take  no  stock  in  it,  but,  see  here,  don't 
you  put  nothin'  too  mean  fer  them  folks.  I  tell  you, 
Mr.  Harkless,  plenty  of  us  are  scared  fer  ye." 

The  good  fellow  was  so  earnest  that  when  the 
editor's  meal  was  finished  and  he  would  have  de 
parted,  Landis  detained  him  almost  by  force  until 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  Willetts,  who,  the  landlord  knew, 
was  his  allotted  escort  for  the  evening.  When  Lige 
came  (wearing  a  new  tie,  a  pink  one  he  had  hastened 
to  buy  as  soon  as  his  engagements  had  allowed  him 
the  opportunity),  Mr.  Landis  hissed  a  savage  word 
of  reproach  for  his  tardiness  in  his  ear,  and  whisper- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  173 

r 

ingly  bade  him  not  let  the  other  out  of  reach  that 
night,  to  which  Willetts  replied  with  a  nod  implying 
his  trustworthiness;  and  the  young  men  set  off  in 
the  darkness. 

Harkless  wondered  if  his  costume  were  not  an 
injustice  to  his  companion,  but  he  did  not  regret  it; 
he  would  wear  his  best  court  suit,  his  laces  and  vel 
vets,  for  deference  to  that  lady.  It  was  a  painful 
thing  to  remember  his  dusty  rustiness  of  the  night 
before,  the  awful  Carlow  cut  of  his  coat,  and  his 
formless  black  cravat;  the  same  felt  hat  he  wore 
again  to-night,  perforce,  but  it  was  brushed — 
brushed  almost  to  holes  in  spots,  and  somehow  he 
had  added  a  touch  of  shape  to  it.  His  dress-coat 
was  an  antique;  fashions  had  changed,  no  doubt;  he 
did  not  know;  possibly  she  would  recognize  its  vin 
tage — but  it  was  a  dress-coat. 

Lige  walked  along  talking;  Harkless  answering 
"Yes"  and  "No"  at  random.  The  woodland- 
spiced  air  was  like  champagne  to  him;  the  road 
under  foot  so  elastic  and  springy  that  he  felt  like  a 
thoroughbred  before  a  race;  he  wanted  to  lift  his 
foot  knee-high  at  every  step,  he  had  so  much  energy 
to  spare.  In  the  midst  of  a  speech  of  Lige's  about 
the  look  of  the  wheat  he  suddenly  gave  out  a  sigh 


174  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

so  deep,  so  heartfelt,  so  vibrant,  so  profound,  that 
Willetts  turned  with  astonishment;  but  when  his 
eye  reached  his  comapnion's  face,  Harkless  was 
smiling.  The  editor  extended  his  hand. 

"Shake  hands,  Lige,"  he  cried. 

The  moon  peeped  over  the  shoulder  of  an  eastern 
wood,  and  the  young  men  suddenly  descried  their 
long  shadows  stretching  in  front  of  them.  Harkless 
turned  to  look  at  the  silhouetted  town,  the  tree-tops 
and  roofs  and  the  Methodist  church  spire,  silvered 
at  the  edges. 

"Do  you  see  that  town,  Willetts?"  he  asked,  lay 
ing  his  fingers  on  his  companion's  sleeve.  "That's 
the  best  town  in  the  United  States  f 

"I  always  kind  of  thought  you  didn't  much  like 
it,"  said  the  other,  puzzled.  "Seemed  to  me  you  al 
ways  sort  of  wished  you  hadn't  settled  here." 

A  little  further  on  they  passed  Mr.  Fisbee.  He 
was  walking  into  the  village  with  his  head  thrown 
back,  a  strange  thing  for  him.  They  gave  him  a 
friendly  greeting  and  passed  on. 

"Well,  it  beats  me!"  observed  Lige,  when  the 
old  man  was  out  of  hearing.  "He's  be'n  there  to 
supper  again.  He  was  there  all  day  yesterday,  and 
with  'em  at  the  lecture,  and  at  the  deepo  day  before 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   175 

and  he  looks  like  another  man,  and  dressed  up — for 
him — to  beat  thunder—  What  do  you  expect  makes 
him  so  thick  out  there  all  of  a  sudden?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  about  it.  The  judge  and  he 
have  been  friends  a  good  while,  haven't  they?" 

"Yes,  three  or  four  years;  but  not  like  this.  It 
beats  me!  He's  all  upset  over  Miss  Sherwood,  I 
think.  Old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather,  too,  the 
old- 

His  companion  stopped  him,  dropping  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Listen!" 

They  were  at  the  corner  of  the  Briscoe  picket 
fence,  and  a  sound  lilted  through  the  stillness — a 
touch  on  the  keys  that  Harkless  knew.  "Listen," 
he  whispered. 

It  was  the  "Moonlight  Sonata"  that  Helen  was 
playing.  "It's  a  pretty  piece,"  observed  Lige  after 
a  time.  John  could  have  choked  him,  but  he  an- 
wered:  "Yes,  it  is  seraphic." 

"Who  made  it  up?"  pursued  Mr.  Willetts. 

"Beethoven." 

"Foreigner,  I  expect.  Yet  in  some  way  or  an 
other  makes  me  think  of  fishing  down  on  the  Wabash 
bend  in  Vigo,  and  camping  out  nights  like  this;  it's  a 


176  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

mighty  pretty  country  around  there — especially  at 
night." 

The  sonata  was  finished,  and  then  she  sang — sang 
the  "Angel's  Serenade."  As  the  soft  soprano  lifted 
and  fell  in  the  modulations  of  that  song  there  was  in 
its  timbre,  apart  from  the  pure,  amber  music  of  it,  a 
questing,  seeking  pathos,  and  Willetts  felt  the  hand 
on  his  shoulder  tighten  and  then  relax;  and,  as  the 
song  ended,  he  saw  that  his  companion's  eyes  were 
shining  and  moist. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NIGHT:  IT  is  BAD  LUCK  TO  SING  BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

THERE  was  a  lace  of  faint  mists  along  the 
crefk  and  beyond,  when  John  and  Helen 
reached  their  bench  (of  course  they  went 
back  there),  and  broken  roundelays  were  croaking 
from  a  bayou  up  the  stream,  where  rakish  frogs  held 
carnival  in  resentment  of  the  lonesomeness.  The  air 
was  still  and  close.  Hundreds  of  fire-flies  coquetted 
with  the  darkness  amongst  the  trees  across  the  water, 
glinting  from  unexpected  spots,  shading  their  little 
lanterns  for  a  second  to  glow  again  from  other 
shadows.  The  sky  was  a  wonderful  olive  green; 
a  lazy  cloud  drifted  in  it  and  lapped  itself  athwart 
the  moon. 

"The  dead  painters  design  the  skies  for  us  each 
day  and  night,  I  think,"  Helen  said,  as  she  dropped  a 
little  scarf  from  her  shoulders  and  leaned  back  on 
the  bench.  "It  must  be  the  only  way  to  keep  them 

happy  and  busy  'up  there.'     They  let  them  take 

177 


178  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

turns,  and  those  not  on  duty,  probably  float 
around  and  criticise." 

"They've  given  a  good  man  his  turn  to-night," 
said  John;  "some  quiet  colorist,  a  poetic,  friendly 
soul,  no  Turner — though  I  think  I've  seen  a  Turner 
sunset  or  two  in  Plattville." 

"It  was  a  sculptor's  sunset  this  evening.  Did 
you  see  it? — great  massy  clouds  piled  heap  on  heap, 
almost  with  violence.  I'm  sure  it  was  Michelangelo. 
The  judge  didn't  think  it  meant  Michelangelo;  he 
thought  it  meant  rain." 

"Michelangelo  gets  a  chance  rather  often,  doesn't 
he,  considering  the  number  of  art  people  there  must 
be  over  there?  I  believe  I've  seen  a  good  many  sun 
sets  of  his,  and  a  few  dawns,  too;  the  dawns  not  for 
a  long  time — I  used  to  see  them  more  frequently 
toward  the  close  of  senior  year,  when  we  sat  up  all 
night  talking,  knowing  we'd  lose  one  another  soon, 
and  trying  to  hold  on  as  long  as  we  could." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  little  frown.  "Why 
have  you  never  let  Tom  Meredith  know  you  were 
living  so  near  him,  less  than  a  hundred  miles,  when 
he  has  always  liked  and  admired  you  above  all  the 
rest  of  mankind?  I  know  that  he  has  tried  time 
and  again  to  hear  of  you,  but  the  other  men  wrote 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   179 

that  they  knew  nothing — that  it  was  thought  you 
had  gone  abroad.  I  had  heard  of  you,  and  so  must 
he  have  seen  your  name  in  the  Rouen  papers — about 
the  'White-Caps,'  and  in  politics — but  he  would 
never  dream  of  connecting  the  Plattville  Mr.  Hark- 
less  with  his  Mr.  Harkless,  though  I  did,  just  a 
little,  and  rather  vaguely.  I  knew,  of  course,  when 
you  came  into  the  lecture.  But  why  haven't  you 
written  to  my  cousin?" 

"Rouen  seems  a  long  way  from  here,"  he  an 
swered  quietly.  "I've  only  been  there  once — half 
a  day  on  business.  Except  that,  I've  never  been 
further  away  than  Amo  or  Gainesville,  for  a  conven 
tion  or  to  make  a  speech,  since  I  came  here." 

"Wicked!"  she  exclaimed,  "To  shut  yourself  up 
like  this!  I  said  it  was  fine  to  drop  out  of  the  world; 
but  why  have  you  cut  off  your  old  friends  from  you? 
Why  haven't  you  had  a  relapse,  now  and  then,  and 
come  over  to  hear  Ysaye  play  and  Melba  sing,  or  to 
see  Mansfield  or  Henry  Irving,  when  we  have  had 
them?  And  do  you  think  you've  been  quite  fair  to 
Tom?  What  right  had  you  to  assume  that  he  had 
forgotten  you?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  exactly  mean  forgotten,"  he  said, 
pulling  a  blade  of  grass  to  and  fro  between  his  fin- 


180  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

gers,  staring  at  it  absently.  "It's  only  that  I  have 
dropped  out  of  the  world,  you  know.  I  kept  track 
of  every  one,  saw  most  of  my  friends,  or  corre 
sponded,  now  and  then,  for  a  year  or  so  after  I  left 
college;  but  people  don't  miss  you  much  after  a 
while.  They  rather  expected  me  to  do  a  lot  of 
things,  in  a  way,  you  know,  and  I  wasn't  doing 
them.  I  was  glad  to  get  away.  I  always  had  an 
itch  for  newspaper  work,  and  I  went  on  a  New  York 
paper.  Maybe  it  was  the  wrong  paper;  at  least,  I 
wasn't  fit  for  it.  There  was  something  in  the  side 
of  life  I  saw,  too,  not  only  on  the  paper,  that  made 
me  heart-sick;  and  then  the  rush  and  fight  and 
scramble  to  be  first,  to  beat  the  other  man.  Prob 
ably  I  am  too  squeamish.  I  saw  classmates  and 
college  friends  diving  into  it,  bound  to  come  out 
ahead,  dear  old,  honest,  frank  fellows,  who  had  been 
so  happy-go-lucky  and  kind  and  gay,  growing  too 
busy  to  meet  and  be  good  to  any  man  who  couldn't 
be  good  to  them,  asking  (more  delicately)  the  eternal 
question,  'What  does  it  get  me?'  You  might  think 
I  had  met  with  unkindness;  but  it  was  not  so;  it  was 
the  other  way  more  than  I  deserved.  But  the 
cruel  competition,  the  thousands  fighting  for  places, 
the  multitude  scrambling  for  each  ginger-bread 


r 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  181 

baton,  the  cold  faces  on  the  streets — perhaps  it's 
all  right  and  good;  of  course  it  has  to  be — but  I 
wanted  to  get  out  of  it,  though  I  didn't  want  to  come 
here.  That  was  chance.  A  new  man  bought  the 
paper  I  was  working  for,  and  its  policy  changed. 
Many  of  the  same  men  still  wrote  for  it,  facing  cheer 
fully  about  and  advocating  a  tricky  theory,  vehe 
ment  champions  of  a  set  of  personal  schemers  and 
waxy  images." 

He  spoke  with  feeling;  but  now,  as  though  a  trifle 
ashamed  of  too  much  seriousness,  and  justifiably 
afraid  of  talking  like  one  of  his  own  editorials,  he 
took  a  lighter  tone.  "I  had  been  taken  on  the 
paper  through  a  friend  and  not  through  merit,  and 
by  the  same  undeserved,  kindly  influence,  after  a 
month  or  so  I  was  set  to  writing  short  political  edi 
torials,  and  was  at  it  nearly  two  years.  When  the 
paper  changed  hands  the  new  proprietor  indicated 
that  he  would  be  willing  to  have  me  stay  and  write 
the  other  way.  I  refused;  and  it  became  somewhat 
plain  to  me  that  I  was  beginning  to  be  a  failure. 

"A  cousin  of  mine,  the  only  relative  I  had,  died 
in  Chicago,  and  I  went  to  his  funeral.  I  happened 
to  hear  of  the  Carlow  'Herald'  through  an  agent 
there,  the  most  eloquent  gentleman  I  ever  met.  I 


182  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

was  younger,  and  even  more  thoughtless  than  now, 
and  I  had  a  little  money  and  I  handed  it  over  for 
the  'Herald.'  I  wanted  to  run  a  paper  myself, 
and  to  build  up  a  power!  And  then,  though  I 
only  lived  here  the  first  few  years  of  my  life  and 
all  the  rest  of  it  had  been  spent  in  the  East,  I  was 
born  in  Indiana,  and,  in  a  way,  the  thought  of  com 
ing  back  to  a  life-work  in  my  native  State  appealed 
to  me.  I  always  had  a  dim  sort  of  feeling  that  the 
people  out  in  these  parts  knew  more — had  more 
sense  and  were  less  artificial,  I  mean — and  were 
kinder,  and  tried  less  to  be  somebody  else,  than 
almost  any  other  people  anywhere.  And  I  believe 
it's  so.  It's  dull,  here  in  Carlow,  of  course — that 
is,  it  used  to  be.  The  agent  explained  that  I  could 
make  the  paper  a  daily  at  once,  with  an  enormous 
circulation  in  the  country.  I  was  very,  very  young. 
Then  I  came  here  and  saw  what  I  had  got.  Possi 
bly  it  is  because  I  am  sensitive  that  I  never  let  Tom 
know.  They  expected  me  to  amount  to  something; 
but  I  don't  believe  his  welcome  would  be  less  hearty 
to  a  failure — he  is  a  good  heart." 

"Failure!"  she  cried,  and  clapped  her  hands  and 
laughed. 

"I'm  really  not  very  tragic  about  it,  though  I 


r 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   183 

must  seem  consumed  with  self-pity,"  he  returned, 
smiling.  "It  is  only  that  I  have  dropped  out  of  the 
world  while  Tom  is  still  in  it." 

"'Dropped  out  of  the  world!'"  she  echoed,  im 
patiently.  "Can't  you  see  you've  dropped  into  it? 
That  you " 

"Last  night  I  was  honored  by  your  praise  of  my 
graceful  mode  of  quitting  it!" 

"And  so  you  wish  me  to  be  consistent!"  she  re 
torted  scornfully.  "What  becomes  of  your  gal 
lantry  when  we  abide  by  reason?" 

"True  enough;  equality  is  a  denial  of  privilege." 

"And  privilege  is  a  denial  of  equality.  I  don't 
like  that  at  all."  She  turned  a  serious,  suddenly 
illuminated  face  upon  him  and  spoke  earnestly. 
"It's  my  hobby,  I  should  tell  you,  and  I'm  very 
tired  of  that  nonsense  about  'women  always  sound 
ing  the  personal  note.'  It  should  be  sounded  as  we 
would  sound  it.  And  I  think  we  could  bear  the  loss 
of  'privilege'— 

He  laughed  and  raised  a  protesting  hand.  "But 
we  couldn't." 

"No,  you  couldn't;  it's  the  ribbon  of  superiority 
in  your  buttonhole.  I  know  several  women  who 
manage  to  live  without  men  to  open  doors  for  them, 


184  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  I  think  I  could  bear  to  let  a  man  pass  before  me 
now  and  then,  or  wear  his  hat  in  an  office  where  I 
happened  to  be;  and  I  could  get  my  own  ice  at  a 
dance,  I  think,  possibly  with  even  less  fuss  and 
scramble  than  I've  sometimes  observed  in  the  young 
men  who  have  done  it  for  me.  But  you  know  you 
would  never  let  us  do  things  for  ourselves,  no  matter 
what  legal  equality  might  be  declared,  even  when 
we  get  representation  for  our  taxation.  You  will 
never  be  able  to  deny  yourselves  giving  us  our 
'privilege.'  I  hate  being  waited  on.  I'd  rather  do 
things  for  myself." 

She  was  so  earnest  in  her  satire,  so  full  of  scorn 
and  so  serious  in  her  meaning,  and  there  was  such 
a  contrast  between  what  she  said  and  her  person ;  she 
looked  so  preeminently  the  pretty  marquise,  all  silks 
and  softness,  the  little  exquisite,  so  essentially  to  be 
waited  on  and  helped,  to  have  cloaks  thrown  over 
the  dampness  for  her  to  tread  upon,  to  be  run  about 
for — he  could  see  half  a  dozen  youths  rushing  about 
for  her  ices,  for  her  carriage,  for  her  chaperone,  for 
her  wrap,  at  dances — that  to  save  his  life  he  could 
not  repress  a  chuckle.  He  managed  to  make  it  in 
audible,  however;  and  it  was  as  well  that  he  did. 

"I   understand   your   love   of   newspaper   work," 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   185 

she  went  on,  less  vehemently,  but  not  less  earnestly. 
"I  have  always  wanted  to  do  it  myself,  wanted  to 
immensely.  I  can't  think  of  any  more  fascinating 
way  of  earning  one's  living.  And  I  know  I  could 
do  it.  Why  don't  you  make  the  'Herald'  a  daily?" 

To  hear  her  speak  of  "earning  one's  living"  was 
too  much  for  him.  She  gave  the  impression  of 
riches,  not  only  for  the  fine  texture  and  fashioning  of 
her  garments,  but  one  felt  that  luxuries  had  wrapped 
her  from  her  birth.  He  had  not  had  much  time  to 
wonder  what  she  did  in  Plattville;  it  had  occurred 
to  him  that  it  was  a  little  odd  that  she  could  plan  to 
spend  any  extent  of  time  there,  even  if  she  had  liked 
Minnie  Briscoe  at  school.  He  felt  that  she  must 
have  been  sheltered  and  petted  and  waited  on  all  her 
life;  one  could  not  help  yearning  to  wait  on  her. 

He  answered  inarticulately,  "Oh,  some  day,"  in 
reply  to  her  question,  and  then  burst  into  outright 
laughter. 

"I  might  have  known  you  wouldn't  take  me  seri 
ously,"  she  said  with  no  indignation,  only  a  sad 
wistfulness.  "I  am  well  used  to  it.  I  think  it  is 
because  I  am  not  tall;  people  take  big  girls  with 
more  gravity.  Big  people  are  nearly  always  lis 
tened  to." 


186  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Listened  to?"  he  said,  and  felt  that  he  must 
throw  himself  on  his  knees  before  her.  "You 
oughtn't  to  mind  being  Titania.  She  was  listened 
to,  you 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  her  eyes  flashed.  "Do 
you  think  personal  comment  is  ever  in  good  taste?" 
she  cried  fiercely,  and  in  his  surprise  he  almost  fell 
off  the  bench.  "If  there  is  one  thing  I  cannot  bear, 
it  is  to  be  told  that  I  am  'small'  I  am  not!  Every 
one  who  isn't  a  giantess  isn't  'small'  I  hate  per 
sonalities  !  I  am  a  great  deal  over  five  feet,  a  great 
deal  more  than  that.  I 

"Please,   please,"  he  said,   "I  didn't " 

"Don't  say  you  are  sorry,"  she  interrupted,  and 
in  spite  of  his  contrition  he  found  her  angry  voice 
delicious,  it  was  still  so  sweet,  hot  with  indignation, 
but  ringing,  not  harsh.  "Don't  say  you  didn't 
mean  it;  because  you  did!  You  can't  unsay  it,  you 
cannot  alter  it!  Ah!"  She  drew  in  her  breath  with 
a  sharp  sigh,  and  covering  her  face  with  her  hands, 
sank  back  upon  the  bench.  "I  will  not  cry,"  she 
said,  not  so  firmly  as  she  thought  she  did. 

"My  blessed  child!"  he  cried,  in  great  distress 
and  perturbation,  "What  have  I  done?  I — 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   187 

"Call  me  'small'  all  you  like!"  she  answered.  "I 
don't  care.  It  isn't  that.  You  mustn't  think  me 
such  an  imbecile."  She  dropped  her  hands  from 
her  face  and  shook  the  tears  from  her  eyes  with  a 
mournful  laugh.  He  saw  that  her  hands  were 
clenched  tightly  and  her  lip  trembled.  "I  will  not 
cry!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Somebody  ought  to  murder  me;  I  ought  to  have 
thought — personalities  are  hideous — 

"Don't!     It  wasn't  that." 

"I  ought  to  be  shot " 

"Ah,  please  don't  say  that,"  she  said,  shuddering; 
"please  don't,  not  even  as  a  joke — after  last 
night." 

"But  I  ought  to  be  for  hurting  you,  indeed— 

She  laughed  sadly,  again.  "It  wasn't  that.  I 
don't  care  what  you  call  me.  I  am  small.  You'll 
try  to  forgive  me  for  being  such  a  baby?  I  didn't 
mean  anything  I  said.  I  haven't  acted  so  badly 
since  I  was  a  child." 

"It's  my  fault,  all  of  it.  I've  tired  you  out.  And 
I  let  you  get  into  that  crush  at  the  circus —  "  he  was 
going  on,  remorsefully. 

"That!"  she  interrupted.  "I  don't  think  I  would 
have  missed  the  circus."  He  had  a  thrilling  hope 


188  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

that  she  meant  the  tent-pole;  she  looked  as  if  she 
meant  that,  but  he  dared  not  let  himself  ^believe 
it. 

"No,"  he  continued;  "I  have  been  so  madly 
happy  in  being  with  you  that  I've  fairly  worn  out 
your  patience.  I've  haunted  you  all  day,  and  I 
have " 

"All  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,'*  she  said, 
slowly.  "Just  after  you  left,  this  afternoon,  I  found 
that  I  could  not  stay  here.  My  people  are  going 
abroad,  to  Dresden,  at  once,  and  I  must  go  with 
them.  That's  what  almost  made  me  cry.  I  leave 
to-morrow  morning." 

He  felt  something  strike  at  his  heart.  In  the  sud 
den  sense  of  dearth  he  had  no  astonishment  that  she 
should  betray  such  agitation  over  her  departure 
from  a  place  she  had  known  so  little,  and  friends  who 
certainly  were  not  part  of  her  life.  He  rose  to  his 
feet,  and,  resting  his  arm  against  a  sycamore,  stood 
staring  away  from  her  at  nothing. 

She  did  not  move.     There  was  a  long  silence. 

He  had  wakened  suddenly;  the  skies  had  been 
sapphire,  the  sward  emerald,  Plattville  a  Camelot  of 
romance;  to  be  there,  enchantment — and  now,  like  a 
meteor  burned  out  in  a  breath,  the  necromancy  fell 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   189 

away  and  he  gazed  into  desolate  years.  The  thought 
of  the  Square,  his  dusty  office,  the  bleak  length  of 
Main  Street,  as  they  should  appear  to-morrow,  gave 
him  a  faint  physical  sickness.  To-day  it  had  all 
been  touched  to  beauty;  he  had  felt  fit  to  live  and 
work  there  a  thousand  years — a  fool's  dream,  and 
the  waking  was  to  emptiness.  He  should  die  now 
of  hunger  and  thirst  in  that  Sahara;  he  hoped  the 
Fates  would  let  it  be  soon — but  he  knew  they  would 
not;  knew  that  this  was  hysteria,  that  in  his  endur 
ance  he  should  plod  on,  plod,  plod  dustily  on, 
through  dingy,  lonely  years. 

There  was  a  rumble  of  thunder  far  out  on  the 
western  prairie.  A  cold  breath  stole  through  the 
hot  stillness,  and  an  arm  of  vapor  reached  out  be 
tween  the  moon  and  the  quiet  earth.  Darkness  fell. 
The  man  and  the  girl  kept  silence  between  them. 
They  might  have  been  two  sad  guardians  of  the 
black  little  stream  that  splashed  unseen  at  their  feet. 
Now  and  then  an  echo  of  far  away  lightning  faintly 
illumined  them  with  a  green  light.  Thunder  rolled 
nearer,  ominously;  the  gods  were  driving  theii 
chariots  over  the  bridge.  The  chill  breath  passed, 
leaving  the  air  again  to  its  hot  inertia. 

"I  did  not  want  to  go,"  she  said,  at  last,  with  tears 


190  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

just  below  the  surface  of  her  voice.  "I  wanted  to 
stay  here,  but  he — they  wouldn't — I  can't." 

"Wanted  to  stay  here?"  he  said,  huskily,  not 
turning.  "Here?" 

"Yes." 

"In  Rouen,  you  mean?" 

"In  Plattvffle." 

"In  Plattville?"     He  turned   now,   astounded. 

"Yes;  wouldn't  you  have  taken  me  on  the  'Her 
ald'?"  She  rose  and  came  toward  him.  "I  could 
have  supported  myself  here  ft  you  would — and  I've 
studied  how  newspapers  are  made;  I  know  I  could 
have  earned  a  wage.  We  could  have  made  it  a 
daily."  He  searched  in  vain  for  a  trace  of  raillery 
in  her  voice;  there  was  none;  she  seemed  to  intend 
her  words  to  be  taken  literally. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
what  you  mean." 

"I  mean  that  I  want  to  stay  here;  that  I  ought  to 
stay  here;  that  my  conscience  tells  me  I  should — but 
I  can't  and  it  makes  me  very  unhappy.  That  was 
why  I  acted  so  badly." 

"Your   conscience!"   he   cried. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  a  jumble  and  puzzle  it  must 
seem  to  you."  • 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   191 

"I  only  know  one  thing;  that  you  are  going  away 
to-morrow  morning,  and  that  I  shall  never  see  you 
again." 

The  darkness  had  grown  heavy.  They  could  not 
see  each  other;  but  a  wan  glimmer  gave  him  a  fleet 
ing,  misty  view  of  her;  she  stood  half -turned  away 
from  him,  her  hand  to  her  cheek  in  the  uncertain 
fashion  of  his  great  moment  of  the  afternoon;  her 
eyes — he  saw  in  the  flying  picture  that  he  caught — 
were  adorably  troubled  and  her  hand  trembled.  She 
Lad  been  irresistible  in  her  gaiety;  but  now  that  a 
mysterious  distress  assailed  her,  the  reason  for  which 
he  had  no  guess,  she  was  so  divinely  pathetic;  and 
seemed  such  a  rich  and  lovely  and  sad  and  happy 
thing  to  have  come  into  his  life  only  to  go  out  of  it; 
and  he  was  so  full  of  the  prophetic  sense  of  loss  of 
her — it  seemed  so  much  like  losing  everything — that 
he  found  too  much  to  say  to  be  able  to  say  any 
thing. 

He  tried  to  speak,  and  choked  a  little.  A  big  drop 
of  rain  fell  on  his  bare  head.  Neither  of  them 
noticed  the  weather  or  cared  for  it.  They  stood 
with  the  renewed  blackness  hanging  like  a  thick 
drapery  between  them. 

"Can — can    you — tell    me    why    you    think    you 


192  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

ought  not  to  go?"  he  whispered,  finally,  with  a  great 
effort. 

"No;  not  now.  But  I  know  you  would  think  I 
am  right  in  wanting  to  stay,"  she  cried,  impulsively. 
"I  know  you  would,  if  you  knew  about  it — but  I 
can't,  I  can't.  I  must  go  in  the  morning." 

"I  should  always  think  you  right,"  he  answered 
in  an  unsteady  tone,  "Always!"  He  went  over  to 
the  bench,  fumbled  about  for  his  hat,  and  picked  it 
up. 

"Come,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  am  going  now." 

She  stood  quite  motionless  for  a  full  minute  or 
longer;  then,  without  a  word,  she  moved  toward  the 
house.  He  went  to  her  with  hands  extended  to 
find  her,  and  his  fingers  touched  her  sleeve.  Then 
together  and  silently  they  found  the  garden-path 
and  followed  its  dim  length.  In  the  orchard  he 

touched  her  sleeve  again  and  led  the  way. 

i   - 

As  they  came  out  behind  the  house  she  detained 
him.  Stopping  short,  she  shook  his  hand  from  her 
arm.  She  spoke  in  a  single  breath,  as  if  it  were  all 
one  word : 

"Will  you  tell  me  why  you  go?  It  is  not  late. 
Why  do  you  wish  to  leave  me,  when  I  shall  not  see 
you  again?" 


r 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   193 

"The  Lord  be  good  to  me!"  he  broke  out,  all 
his  long-pent  passion  of  dreams  rushing  to  his  lips, 
now  that  the  barrier  fell.  "Don't  you  see  it  is  be 
cause  I  can't  bear  to  let  you  go?  I  hoped  to  get 
away  without  saying  it.  I  want  to  be  alone.  I 
want  to  be  with  myself  and  try  to  realize.  I  didn't 
want  to  make  a  babbling  idiot  of  myself — but  I 
am!  It  is  because  I  don't  want  another  second  of 
your  sweetness  to  leave  an  added  pain  when  you've 
gone.  It  is  because  I  don 't  want  to  hear  your  voice 
again,  to  have  it  haunt  me  in  the  loneliness  you  will 
leave — but  it's  useless,  useless!  I  shall  hear  it  al 
ways,  just  as  I  shall  always  see  your  face,  just  as  I 
have  heard  your  voice  and  seen  your  face  these 
seven  years — ever  since  I  first  saw  you.  a  child  at 
Winter  Harbor.  I  forgot  for  a  while;  I  thought  it 
was  a  girl  I  had  made  up  out  of  my  own  heart,  but 
it  was  you — you  always!  The  impression  I  thought 
nothing  of  at  the  time,  just  the  merest  touch  on  my 
heart,  light  as  it  was,  grew  and  grew  deeper  until  it 
was  there  forever.  You've  known  me  twenty-four 
hours,  and  I  understand  what  you  think  of  me  for 
speaking  to  you  like  this.  If  I  had  known  you  for 
years  and  had  waited  and  had  the  right  to  speak  and 
keep  your  respect,  what  have  I  to  offer  you?  I 


194  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

couldn't  even  take  care  of  you  if  you  went  mad  as  I 
and  listened.  I've  no  excuse  for  this  raving.  Yes, 
I  have!" 

He  saw  her  in  another  second  of  lightning,  a 
sudden,  bright  one.  Her  back  was  turned  to  him; 
she  had  taken  a  few  startled  steps  from  him. 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  "you  are  glad  enough,  now,  to 
see  me  go!  I  knew  it.  I  wanted  to  spare  myself 
that.  I  tried  not  to  be  a  hysterical  fool  in  your 
eyes."  He  turned  aside  and  his  head  fell  on  his 
breast.  "God  help  me,"  he  said,  "what  will  this 
place  be  to  me  now?" 

The  breeze  had  risen;  it  gathered  force;  it  was  a 
chill  wind,  and  there  rose  a  wailing  on  the  prairie, 
Drops  of  rain  began  to  fall. 

"You  will  not  think  a  question  implied  in  this," 
he  said  more  composedly,  and  with  an  unhappy 
laugh  at  himself.  "I  believe  you  will  not  think  me 
capable  of  asking  you  if  you  care " 

"No,"  she  answered;  "I — I  do  not  love  you." 

"Ah!  Was  it  a  question,  after  all?  I — you  read 
me  better  than  I  do,  perhaps — but  if  I  asked,  I  knew 
the  answer." 

She  made  as  if  to  speak  again,  but  words  refused 
her. 


THE  GENT£EMAN  FROM  INDIANA  195 

After  a  moment,  "Good-by,"  he  said,  very  stead 
ily.  "I  thank  you  for  the  charity  that  has  given  me 
this  little  time  with  you — it  will  always  be — precious 
to  me — I  shall  always  be  your  servant."  His  steadi 
ness  did  not  carry  him  to  the  end  of  his  sentence. 
"Good-by." 

She  started  toward  him  and  stopped,  without  his 
seeing  her.  She  answered  nothing;  but  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  him  and  then  let  it  fall  quickly. 

"Good-by,"  he  said  again.  "I  shall  go  out  the 
orchard  gate.  Please  tell  them  good-night  for  me. 
Won't  you  speak  to  me?  Good-by." 

He  stood  waiting  while  the  rising  wind  blew  their 
garments  about  them.  She  leaned  against  the  wall 
of  the  house.  "Won't  you  say  good-by  and  tell  me 
you  can  forget  my " 

She  did  not  speak. 

"No!"  he  cried,  wildly.  "Since  you  don't  for 
get  it !  I  have  spoiled  what  might  have  been  a  pleas 
ant  memory  for  you,  and  I  know  it.  You  were  al 
ready  troubled,  and  I  have  added,  and  you  won't 
forget  it,  nor  shall  I — nor  shall  I!  Don't  say  good- 
by — I  can  say  it  for  both  of  us.  God  bless  you — 
and  good-by,  good-by,  good-by!" 

He  crushed  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and  ran 


196  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

toward  the  orchard  gate.  For  a  moment  lightning 
flashed  repeatedly;  she  saw  him  go  out  the  gate  and 
disappear  into  sudden  darkness.  He  ran  through 
the  field  and  came  out  on  the  road.  Heaven  and 
earth  were  revealed  again  for  a  dazzling  white 
second.  From  horizon  to  horizon  rolled  clouds 
contorted  like  an  illimitable  field  of  inverted  hay 
stacks,  and  beneath  them  enormous  volumes  of  pale 
vapor  were  tumbling  in  the  west,  advancing  east 
ward  with  sinister  swiftness.  She  ran  to  a  little 
knoll  at  the  corner  of  the  house  and  saw  him  set  his 
face  to  the  storm.  She  cried  aloud  to  him  with  all 
her  strength  and  would  have  followed,  but  the  wind 
took  the  words  out  of  her  mouth  and  drove  her  back 
cowering  to  the  shelter  of  the  house. 

Out  on  the  road  the  dust  came  lashing  and  sting 
ing  him  like  a  thousand  nettles;  it  smothered  him, 
and  beat  upon  him  so  that  he  covered  his  face  with 
his  sleeve  and  fought  into  the  storm  shoulder  fore 
most,  dimly  glad  of  its  rage,  scarcely  conscious  of  it, 
keeping  westward  on  his  way  to  nowhere.  West  or 
east,  south  or  north — it  was  all  one  to  him.  The  few 
heavy  drops  that  fell  boiling  into  the  dust  ceased  to 
come;  the  rain  withheld  while  the  wind-kings  rode 
on  earth.  On  he  went  in  spite  of  them.  On  and 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   197 

on,  running  blindly  when  he  could  run  at  all.  At 
least,  the  wind-kings  were  company.  He  had  been 
so  long  alone.  He  could  remember  no  home  that 
had  ever  been  his  since  he  was  a  little  child,  neither 
father  nor  mother,  no  one  who  belonged  to  him 
or  to  whom  he  belonged,  except  one  cousin,  an 
old  man  who  was  dead.  For  a  day  his  dreams 
had  found  in  a  girl's  eyes  the  precious  thing  that  is 
called  home — oh,  the  wrild  fancy!  He  laughed 
aloud. 

There  was  a  startling  answer;  a  lance  of  living  fire 
hurled  from  the  sky,  riving  the  fields  before  his  eyes, 
while  crash  on  crash  of  artillery  numbed  his  ears. 
With  that  his  common-sense  awoke  and  he  looked 
about  him.  He  was  almost  two  miles  from  town; 
the  nearest  house  was  the  Briscoes'  far  down  the 
road.  He  knew  the  rain  would  come  now.  There 

was  a  big  oak  near  him  at  the  roadside.     He  stepped 

• 
under  its  sheltering  branches  and  leaned  against  the 

great  trunk,  wiping  the  perspiration  and  dust  from 
his  face.  A  moment  of  stunned  quiet  had  suc 
ceeded  the  peal  of  thunder.  It  was  followed  by 
several  moments  of  incessant  lightning  that  played 
along  the  road  and  danced  in  the  fields.  From  that 
intolerable  brightness  he  turned  his  head  and  saw, 


198  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

standing  against  the  fence,  five  feet  away,  a  man, 
leaning  over  the  top  rail  and  looking  at  him. 

The  same  flash  staggered  brilliantly  before  Helen's 
eyes  as  she  crouched  against  the  back  steps  of  the 
brick  house.  It  scarred  a  picture  like  a  marine  of 
big  waves:  the  tossing  tops  of  the  orchard  trees;  for 
in  the  same  second  the  full  fury  of  the  storm  was 
loosed,  wind  and  rain  and  hail.  It  drove  her  against 
the  kitchen  door  with  cruel  force;  the  latch  lifted, 
the  door  blew  open  violently,  and  she  struggled  to 
close  it  in  vain.  The  house  seemed  to  rock.  A  lamp 
flickered  toward  her  from  the  inner  doorway  and 
was  blown  out. 

"Helen!  Helen!"  came  Minnie's  voice,  anxiously. 
"Is  that  you?  We  were  coming  to  look  for  you. 
Did  you  get  wet?" 

Mr.  Willetts  threw  his  weight  against  the  door 
and  managed  to  close  it.  Then  Minnie  found  her 
friend's  hand  and  led  her  through  the  dark  hall  to 
the  parlor  where  the  judge  sat,  placidly  reading  by  a 
student-lamp. 

Lige  chuckled  as  they  left  the  kitchen.  "I  guess 
you  didn't  try  too  hard  to  shut  that  door,  Harkless," 
he  said,  and  then,  when  they  came  into  the  lighted 


THE  GENT£EMAN  FROM  INDIANA  199 

room,  "Why,  where  is  Harkless?"  he  asked. 
"Didn't  he  come  with  us  from  the  kitchen?" 

"No,"  answered  Helen,  faintly;  "he's  gone."  She 
sank  upon  the  sofa  and  drew  her  hand  across  her 
eyes  as  if  to  shade  them  from  too  sudden  light. 

"Gone!"  The  judge  dropped  his  book  and 
stared  across  the  table  at  the  girl.  "Gone!  When?" 

"Ten  minutes — five — half  an  hour — I  don't  know. 
Before  the  storm  commenced." 

"Oh!"  The  old  gentleman  appeared  to  be  reas 
sured.  "Probably  he  had  work  to  do  and  wanted 
to  get  in  before  the  rain." 

But  Lige  Willetts  was  turning  pale.  He  swal 
lowed  several  times  with  difficulty.  "Which  way 
did  he  go?  He  didn't  come  around  the  house;  we 
were  out  there  till  the  storm  broke." 

"He  went  by  the  orchard  gate.  When  he  got  to 
the  road  he  turned  that  way."  She  pointed  to  the 
west. 

"He  must  have  been  crazy!"  exclaimed  the 
judge.  "What  possessed  the  fellow?" 

"I  couldn't  stop  him.  I  didn't  know  how."  She 
looked  at  her  three  companions,  slowly  and  with 
growing  terror,  from  one  face  to  another.  Minnie's 
eyes  were  wide  and  she  had  unconsciously  grasped 


200  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Lige's  arm;  the  young  man  was  looking  straight 
before  him;  the  judge  got  up  and  walked  nervously 
back  and  forth.  Helen  rose  to  her  feet  swiftly  and 
went  toward  the  old  man,  her  hands  pressed  to  her 
bosom. 

"Ah!"  she  cried  out,  sharply,  "I  had  forgotten 
that!  You  don't  think  they — you  don't  think 
he " 

"I  know  what  /  think,"  Lige  broke  in;  "I  think 
I'd  ought  to  be  hanged  for  letting  him  out  of  my 
sight.  Maybe  it's  all  right;  maybe  he  turned  and 
started  right  back  for  town — and  got  there.  But  / 
had  no  business  to  leave  him,  and  if  I  can  I'll  catch 
up  with  him  yet."  He  went  to  the  front  door,  and, 
opening  it,  let  in  a  tornado  of  wind  and  flood  of 
water  that  beat  him  back;  sheets  of  rain  blew  in 
horizontally,  in  spite  of  the  porch  beyond. 

Briscoe  followed  him.  "Don't  be  a  fool,  Lige," 
he  said.  "You  hardly  expect  to  go  out  in  that." 
Lige  shook  his  head;  it  needed  them  both  to  get  the 
door  closed.  The  young  man  leaned  against  it  and 
passed  his  sleeve  across  his  wet  brow.  "I  hadn't 
ought  to  have  left  him." 

"Don't  scare  the  girls,"  whispered  the  other;  then 
in  a  louder  tone:  "All  I'm  afraid  of  is  that  he'll  get 


r 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  201 

blown  to  pieces  or  catch  his  death  of  cold.  That's 
all  there  is  to  worry  about.  Those  scalawags  wouldn't 
try  it  again  so  soon  after  last  night.  I'm  not  bother 
ing  about  that;  not  at  all.  That  needn't  worry 
anybody." 

"But  this  morning " 

"Pshaw!  He's  likely  home  and  dry  by  this  time 
— all  foolishness;  don't  be  an  old  woman."  The 
two  men  reentered  the  room  and  found  Helen 
clinging  to  Minnie's  hand  on  the  sofa.  She  looked 
up  at  them  quickly. 

"Do  you  think — do  you — what  do  you — "  Her 
voice  shook  so  that  she  could  not  go  on. 

The  judge  pinched  her  cheek  and  patted  it.  "I 
think  he's  home  and  dry,  but  I  think  he  got  wet  first; 
that's  what  I  think.  Never  you  fear,  he's  a  good 
hand  at  taking  care  of  himself.  Sit  down,  Lige. 
You  can't  go  for  a  while."  Nor  could  he.  It  was 
long  before  he  could  venture  out;  the  storm  raged 
and  roared  without  abatement;  it  was  Carlow's 
worst  since  'Fifty-one,  the  old  gentleman  said.  They 
heard  the  great  limbs  crack  and  break  outside, 
while  the  thunder  boomed  and  the  wind  ripped  at 
the  eaves  till  it  seemed  the  roof  must  go.  Mean 
while  the  judge,  after  some  apology,  lit  his  pipe  and 


202  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

told  long  stories  of  the  storms  of  early  days  and  of 
odd  freaks  of  the  wind.  He  talked  on  calmly,  the 
picture  of  repose,  and  blew  rings  above  his  head, 
but  Helen  saw  that  one  of  his  big  slippers  beat  an 
unceasing  little  tattoo  on  the  carpet.  She  sat  with 
fixed  eyes,  in  silence,  holding  Minnie's  hand  tightly; 
and  her  face  was  colorless,  and  grew  whiter  as  the 
slow  hours  dragged  by. 

Every  moment  Mr.  Willetts  became  more  rest 
less,  though  assuring  the  ladies  he  had  no  anxiety 
regarding  Mr.  Harkless;  it  was  only  his  own  derelic 
tion  of  duty  that  he  regretted;  the  boys  would  have 
the  laugh  on  him,  he  said.  But  he  visibly  chafed 
more  and'  more  under  the  judge's  stories;  and  con 
stantly  rose  to  peer  out  of  the  window  into  the 
wrack  and  turmoil,  or  uneasily  shifted  in  his  chair. 
Once  or  twice  he  struck  his  hands  together  with 
muttered  ejaculations.  At  last  there  was  a  lull  in 
the  fury  without,  and,  as  soon  as  it  was  perceptible, 
he  declared  his  intention  of  making  his  way  into 
town;  he  had  ought  to  have  went  before,  he  declared, 
apprehensively;  and  then,  with  immediate  amend 
ment,  of  course  he  would  find  the  editor  at  work  in 
the  "Herald"  office;  there  wasn't  the  slightest  doubt 
of  that;  he  agreed  with  the  judge,  but  he  better  see 


r 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  203 

about  it.  He  would  return  early  in  the  morning 
to  bid  Miss  Sherwood  good-by;  hoped  she'd  come 
back,  some  day;  hoped  it  wasn't  her  last  visit  to 
Plattville.  They  gave  him  an  umbrella  and  he 
plunged  out  into  the  night,  and  as  they  stood  watch 
ing  him  for  a  moment  from  the  door,  the  old  man 
calling  after  him  cheery  good-nights  and  laughing 
messages  to  Harkless,  they  could  hear  his  feet  slosh 
into  the  puddles  and  see  him  fight  with  his  umbrella 
when  he  got  out  into  the  road. 

Helen's  room  was  over  the  porch,  the  windows 
facing  north,  looking  out  upon  the  pike  and  across 
the  fields  beyond.  "Please  don't  light  the  lamp, 
Minnie,"  she  said,  when  they  had  gone  upstairs.  "I 
don't  need  a  light."  Miss  Briscoe  was  flitting  about 
the  room,  hunting  for  matches.  In  the  darkness 
she  came  to  her  friend,  and  laid  a  kind,  large  hand 
on  Helen's  eyes,  and  the  hand  became  wet.  She 
drew  Helen's  head  down  on  her  shoulder  and  sat 
beside  her  on  the  bed. 

"Sweetheart,  you  mustn't  fret,"  she  soothed,  in 
motherly  fashion.  "Don't  you  worry,  dear.  He's 
all  right.  It  isn't  your  fault,  dear.  They  wouldn't 
come  on  a  night  like  this." 

But  Helen  drew  away  and  went  to  the  window. 


204  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

flattening  her  arm  against  the  pane,  her  forehead 
pressed  against  her  arm.  She  had  let  him  go;  she 
had  let  him  go  alone.  She  had  forgotten  the  danger 
that  always  beset  him.  She  had  been  so  crazy,  she 
had  seen  nothing,  thought  of  nothing.  She  had  let 
him  go  into  that,  and  into  the  storm,  alone.  Who 
knew  better  than  she  how  cruel  they  were?  She 
had  seen  the  fire  leap  from  the  white  blossom  and 
heard  the  ball  whistle,  the  ball  they  had  meant  for 
his  heart,  that  good,  great  heart.  She  had  run  to 
him  the  night  before — why  had  she  let  him  go  into 
the  unknown  and  the  storm  to-night?  But  how 
could  she  have  stopped  him?  How  could  she  have 
kept  him,  after  what  he  had  said?  She  peered  into 
the  night  through  distorting  tears. 

The  wind  had  gone  down  a  little,  but  only  a  little, 
and  the  electrical  flashes  danced  all  around  the 
horizon  in  magnificent  display,  sometimes  far  away, 
sometimes  dazingly  near,  the  darkness  trebly  deep 
between  the  intervals  when  the  long  sweep  of  flat 
lands  lay  in  dazzling  clearness,  clean-cut  in  the 
washed  air  to  the  finest  detail  of  stricken  field  and 
heaving  woodland.  A  staggering  flame  clove  earth 
and  sky;  sheets  of  light  came  following  it,  and  a 
frightful  uproar  shook  the  house  and  rattled  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  205 

casements,  but  over  the  crash  of  thunder  Minnie 
heard  her  friend's  loud  scream  and  saw  her  spring 
back  from  the  window  with  both  hands,  palm  out 
ward,  pressed  to  her  face.  She  leaped  to  her  and 
threw  her  arms  about  her. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Look!"  Helen  dragged  her  to  the  win 
dow.  "At  the  next  flash — the  fence  beyond  the 
meadow 

"What  was  it?  What  was  it  like?"  The  light 
ning  flashed  incessantly.  Helen  tried  to  point;  her 
hand  only  jerked  from  side  to  side. 

"Look!"  she  cried. 

"I  see  nothing  but  the  lightning,"  Minnie  an 
swered,  breathlessly. 

"Oh,  the  fence!    The  fence— and  in  the  field!" 

"Helen!    What  was  it  like?" 

"Ah-ah!"  she  panted,  "a  long  line  of  white — 
horrible  white — 

"What  like?"  Minnie  turned  from  the  window 
and  caught  the  other's  wrist  in  a  fluttering 
clasp. 

"Minnie,  Minnie!  Like  long  white  gowns  and 
cowls  crossing  the  fence."  Helen  released  her 
wrist,  and  put  both  hands  on  Minnie's  cheeks, 


206  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

forcing  her  around  to  face  the  pane.     "You  must 
look — you  must  look,"  she  cried. 

"They  wouldn't  do  it,  they  wouldn't— it  Ml!" 
Minnie  cried.  "They  couldn't  come  in  the  storm. 
They  wouldn't  do  it  in  the  pouring  rain!" 

"Yes!  Such  things  would  mind  the  rain!"  She 
burst  into  hysterical  laughter,  and  Minnie,  almost 
as  unnerved,  caught  her  about  the  waist.  "They 
would  mind  the  ram.  They  would  fear  a  storm!  Ha, 
ha,  ha!  Yes — yes!  And  I  let  him  go — I  let  him  go!" 

Pressing  close  together,  shuddering,  clasping  each 
other's  waists,  the  two  girls  peered  out  at  the  flicker 
ing  landscape. 
-    "Look!" 

Up  from  the  distant  fence  that  bordered  the 
northern  side  of  Jones's  field,  a  pale,  pelted,  flap 
ping  thing  reared  itself,  poised,  and  seemed,  just 
as  the  blackness  came  again,  to  drop  to  the  ground. 

"Did  you  see?" 

But  Minnie  had  thrown  herself  into  a  chair  with 
a  laugh  of  wild  relief.  "My  darling  girl !"  she  cried. 
"Not  a  line  of  white  things — just  one — Mr.  Jones's 
old  scarecrow!  And  we  saw  it  blown  down!" 

"No,  no,  no!  I  saw  the  others;  they  were  in  the 
field  beyond.  I  saw  them!  When  I  looked  the 


THfe  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  207 

first  time  they  were  nearly  all  on  the  fence.  This 
time  we  saw  the  last  man  crossing.  Ah!  I  let  him 
go  alone!" 

Minnie  sprang  up  and  enfolded  her.  "No;  you 
dear,  imagining  child,  you're  upset  and  nervous — 
that's  all  the  matter  in  the  world.  Don't  worry; 
don't,  child,  it's  all  right.  Mr.  Harkless  is  home 
and  safe  in  bed  long  ago.  I  know  that  old  scare 
crow  on  the  fence  like  a  book;  you're  so  unstrung 
you  fancied  the  rest.  He's  all  right;  don't  you 
bother,  dear." 

The  big,  motherly  girl  took  her  companion  in 
her  arms  and  rocked  her  back  and  forth  soothingly, 
and  petted  and  reassured  her,  and  then  cried  a 
little  with  her,  as  a  good-hearted  girl  always  will 
with  a  friend.  Then  she  left  her  for  the  night 
with  many  a  cheering  word  and  tender  caress. 
"Get  to  sleep,  dear,"  she  called  through  the  door 
when  she  had  closed  it  behind  her.  "You  must, 
if  you  have  to  go  in  the  morning — it  just  breaks 
my  heart.  I  don't  know  how  we'll  bear  it  without 
you.  Father  will  miss  you  almost  as  much  as  I 
will.  Good-night.  Don't  bother  about  that  old 
white  scarecrow.  That's  all  it  was.  Good-night, 
dear,  good-night." 


208  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Good-night,  dear,"  answered  a  plaintive  little 
voice.  Helen's  hot  cheek  pressed  the  pillow  and 
tossed  from  side  to  side.  By  and  by  she  turned  the 
pillow  over;  it  had  grown  wet.  The  wind  blew 
about  the  eaves  and  blew  itself  out;  she  hardly 
heard  it.  Sleep  would  not  come.  She  got  up  and 
laved  her  burning  eyes.  Then  she  sat  by  the  window. 
The  storm's  strength  was  spent  at  last;  the  rain 
grew  lighter  and  lighter,  until  there  was  but  the 
sound  of  running  water  and  the  drip,  drip  on  the 
tin  roof  of  the  porch.  Only  the  thunder  rumbling 
in  the  distance  marked  the  storm's  course;  the 
chariots  of  the  gods  rolling  further  and  further  away, 
till  they  finally  ceased  to  be  heard  altogether.  The 
clouds  parted  majestically,  and  then,  between  great 
curtains  of  mist,  the  day-star  was  seen  shining  in 
the  east. 

The  night  was  hushed,  and  the  peace  that  falls 
before  dawn  was  upon  the  wet,  flat  lands.  Some 
where  in  the  sodden  grass  a  swamped  cricket 
chirped.  From  an  outlying  flange  of  the  village 
a  dog's  howl  rose  mournfully;  was  answered  by 
another,  far  away,  and  by  another  and  another. 
The  sonorous  chorus  rose  above  the  village,  died 
away,  and  quiet  fell  again. 


r 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  209 

Helen  sat  by  the  window,  no  comfort  touching 
her  heart.  Tears  coursed  her  cheeks  no  longer, 
but  her  eyes  were  wide  and  staring,  and  her  lips 
parted,  for  the  hush  was  broken  by  the  far  clamor 
of  the  court-house  bell  ringing  in  the  night.  It 
rang,  and  rang,  and  rang,  and  rang.  She  could 
not  breathe.  She  threw  open  the  window.  The 
bell  stopped.  All  was  quiet  once  more.  The  east 
was  growing  gray. 

Suddenly  out  of  the  stillness  there  came  the 
sound  of  a  horse  galloping  over  a  wet  road.  He  was 
coming  like  mad.  Some  one  for  a  doctor?  No; 
the  horse-hoofs  grew  louder,  coming  out  from  the 
town,  coming  this  way,  coming  faster  and  faster, 
coming  here.  There  was  a  splashing  and  trampling 
in  front  of  the  house  and  a  sharp  "Whoa!"  In  the 
dim  gray  of  first  dawn  she  made  out  a  man  on  a 
foam-flecked  horse.  He  drew  up  at  the  gate. 

A  window  to  the  right  of  hers  went  screeching  up. 
She  heard  the  judge  clear  his  throat  before  he  spoke. 

"What  is  it?  That's  you,  isn't  it,  Wiley?  What 
is  it?"  He  took  a  good  deal  of  time  and  coughed 
between  the  sentences.  His  voice  was  more  than 
ordinarily  quiet,  and  it  sounded  husky.  "What  is 
it,  Wiley?" 


210  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Judge,  what  time  did  Mr.  Harkless  leave  here 
last  night  and  which  way  did  he  go?" 

There  was  a  silence.  The  judge  turned  away 
from  the  window.  Minnie  was  standing  just  out 
side  his  door.  "It  must  have  been  about  half-past 
nine,  wasn't  it,  father?"  she  called  in  a  shaking 
voice.  "And,  you  know,  Helen  thought  he  went 
west." 

"Wiley!"  The  old  man  leaned  from  the  sill 
again. 

"Yes!"  answered  the  man  on  horseback. 

"Wiley,  he  left  about  half -past  nine — just  before 
the  storm.  They  think  he  went  west." 

"Much  obliged.  Willetts  is  so  upset  he  isn't  sure 
of  anything." 

"WTiley!"  The  old  man's  voice  shook;  Minnie 
began  to  cry  aloud.  The  horseman  wheeled  about 
and  turned  his  animal's  head  toward  town. 
"Wiley!" 

"Yes." 

"Wiley,  they  haven't — you  don't  think  they've 
got  him?" 

"By  God,  judge,"  said  the  man  on  horseback, 
"I'm  afraid  they  have!" 


r 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    COURT-HOUSE   BELL 

THE  court-house  bell  ringing  in  the  night! 
No  hesitating  stroke  of  Schofields'  Henry, 
no  uncertain  touch,  was  on  the  rope.  A 
loud,  wild,  hurried  clamor  pealing  out  to  wake 
the  country-side,  a  rapid  clang!  clang!  clang!  that 
struck  clear  in  to  the  spine. 

The  court-house  bell  had  tolled  for  the  death  of 
Morton,  of  Garfield,  of  Hendricks;  had  rung  joy- 
peals  of  peace  after  the  war  and  after  political  cam 
paigns;  but  it  had  rung  as  it  was  ringing  now  only 
three  times;  once  when  Hibbard's  mill  burned,  once 
when  Webb  Landis  killed  Sep  Bardlock  and  in 
trenched  himself  in  the  lumber-yard  and  would  not 
be  taken  till  he  was  shot  through  and  through,  and 
once  when  the  Rouen  accommodation  was  wrecked 
within  twenty  yards  of  the  station. 

Why  was  the  bell  ringing  now?  Men  and  women, 
startled  into  wide  wakefulness,  groped  to  windows 
— no  red  mist  hung  over  town  or  country.  What 

was  it?     The  bell  rang  on.     Its  loud  alarm  beat  in- 

211 


212  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

creasingly  into  men's  hearts  and  quickened  their 
throbbing  to  the  rapid  measure  of  its  own.  Vague 
forms  loomed  in  the  gloaming.  A  horse,  wildly  rid 
den,  splashed  through  the  town.  There  were  shouts; 
voices  called  hoarsely.  Lamps  began  to  gleam  in 
the  windows.  Half -clad  people  emerged  from  their 
houses,  men  slapping  their  braces  on  their  shoulders 
as  they  ran  out  of  doors.  Questions  were  shouted 
into  the  dimness. 

Then  the  news  went  over  the  town. 

It  was  cried  from  yard  to  yard,  from  group  to 
group,  from  gate  to  gate,  and  reached  the  further 
most  confines.  Runners  shouted  it  as  they  sped 
by;  boys  panted  it,  breathless;  women  with  loosened 
hair  stumbled  into  darkling  chambers  and  faltered  it 
out  to  new- wakened  sleepers;  pale  girls  clutching 
wraps  at  their  throats  whispered  it  across  fences; 
the  sick,  tossing  on  their  hard  beds,  heard  it.  The 
bell  clamored  it  far  and  near;  it  spread  over  the 
country-side;  it  flew  over  the  wires  to  distant  cities. 
The  White-Caps  had  got  Mr.  Harkless! 

Lige  Willetts  had  lost  track  of  him  out  near  Bris- 
coes',  it  was  said,  and  had  come  in  at  midnight  seek 
ing  him.  He  had  found  Parker,  the  "Herald"  fore 
man,  and  Ross  Schofield,  the  typesetter,  and  Bud 


THETGENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  213 

Tipworthy,  the  devil,  at  work  in  the  printing-room, 
but  no  sign  of  Harkless,  there  or  in  the  cottage.  To 
gether  these  had  sought  for  him  and  had  roused 
others,  who  had  inquired  at  every  house  where  he 
might  have  gone  for  shelter,  and  they  had  heard 
nothing.  They  had  watched  for  his  coming  during 
the  slackening  of  the  storm  and  he  had  not  come, 
and  there  was  nowhere  he  could  have  gone.  He 
was  missing;  only  one  thing  could  have  happened. 

They  had  roused  up  Warren  Smith,  the  prosecutor, 
the  missing  editor's  most  intimate  friend  in  Carlow, 
and  Homer,  the  sheriff,  and  Jared  Wiley,  the  deputy. 
William  Todd  had  rung  the  alarm.  The  first  thing 
to  do  was  to  find  him.  After  that  there  would  be 
trouble — if  not  before.  It  looked  as  if  there  would 
be  trouble  before.  The  men  tramping  up  to  the 
muddy  Square  in  their  shirt-sleeves  were  bulgy 
about  the  right  hips;  and  when  Homer  Tibbs  joined 
Lum  Landis  at  the  hotel  corner,  and  Landis  saw 
that  Homer  was  carrying  a  shot-gun,  Landis  went 
back  for  his.  A  hastily  sworn  posse  galloped  out 
Main  Street.  Women  and  children  ran  into  neigh 
bors'  yards  and  began  to  cry.  Day  was  coming; 
and,  as  the  light  grew,  men  swore  and  savagely 
kicked  at  the  palings  of  fences  that  they  passed. 


214  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

In  the  foreglow  of  dawn  they  gathered  in  the 
Square  and  listened  to  Warren  Smith,  who  made  a 
speech  from  the  court-house  fence  and  warned  them 
to  go  slow.  They  answered  him  with  angry  shouts 
and  hootings,  but  he  made  his  big  voice  heard, 
and  bade  them  do  nothing  rash;  no  facts  were 
known,  he  said;  it  was  far  from  certain  that  harm 
had  been  done,  and  no  one  knew  that  the  Six-Cross- 
Roads  people  had  done  it — even  if  something  had 
happened  to  Mr.  Harkless.  He  declared  that  he 
spoke  in  Harkless's  name.  Nothing  could  distress 
him  so  much  as  for  them  to  defy  the  law,  to 
take  it  out  of  the  proper  hands.  Justice  would 
be  done. 

"Yes  it  will!"  shouted  a  man  below  him,  brand 
ishing  the  butt  of  a  raw-hide  whip  above  his  head. 
"And  while  you  jaw  on  about  it  here,  he  may  be 
tied  up  like  a  dog  in  the  woods,  shot  full  of  holes 
by  the  men  you  never  lifted  a  finger  to  hender,  be 
cause  you  want  their  votes  when  you  run  for  circuit 
judge.  What  are  we  doin'  here?  What's  the  good 
of  listening  to  you?" 

There  was  a  yell  at  this,  and  those  who  heard  the 
speaker  would  probably  have  started  for  the  Cross- 
Roads  without  further  parley,  had  not  a  rumor 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  215 

sprung  up,  which  passed  so  rapidly  from  man  to 
man  that  within  five  minutes  it  was  being  turbu- 
lently  discussed  in  every  portion  of  the  crowd.  The 
news  came  that  the  two  shell-gamblers  had  wrenched 
a  bar  out  of  a  window  under  cover  of  the  storm, 
had  broken  jail,  and  were  at  large.  Their  threats 
of  the  day  before  were  remembered  now,  with  con 
vincing  vividness.  They  had  sworn  repeatedly  to 
Bardlock  and  to  the  sheriff,  and  in  the  hearing  of 
others,  that  they  would  "do"  for  the  man  who 
took  their  money  from  them  and  had  them  arrested. 
The  prosecuting  attorney,  quickly  perceiving  the 
value  of  this  complication  in  holding  back  the  mob 
that  was  already  forming,  called  Horner  from  the 
crowd  and  made  him  get  up  on  the  fence  and  con 
fess  that  his  prisoners  had  escaped — at  what  time 
he  did  not  know,  probably  toward  the  beginning  of 
the  storm,  when  it  was  noisiest. 

"You  see,"  cried  the  attorney,  "there  is  nothing 
as  yet  of  which  we  can  accuse  the  Cross-Roads.  If 
our  friend  has  been  hurt,  it  is  much  more  likely  that 
these  crooks  did  it.  They  escaped  in  time  to  do  it, 
and  we  all  know  they  were  laying  for  him.  You 
want  to  be  mighty  careful,  fellow-citizens.  Horner 
is  already  in  telegraphic  communication  with  every 


216  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

town  around  here,  and  we'll  have  those  men  before 
night.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  control  yourselves 
a  little  and  go  home  quietly."  He  could  see  that  his 
words  (except  those  in  reference  to  returning  home 
— no  one  was  going  home)  made  an  impression. 
There  rose  a  babble  of  shouting  and  argument  and 
swearing  that  grew  continually  louder,  and  the  faces 
the  lawyer  looked  down  on  were  creased  with  per 
plexity,  and  shadowed  with  an  anger  that  settled 
darker  and  darker. 

Mr.  Ephraim  Watts,  in  spite  of  all  confusion,  clad 
as  carefully  as  upon  the  preceding  day,  deliberately 
climbed  the  fence  and  stood  by  the  lawyer  and  made 
a  single  steady  gesture  with  his  hand.  He  was  lis 
tened  to  at  once,  as  his  respect  for  the  law  was  less 
notorious  than  his  irreverence  for  it,  and  he  had 
been  known  in  Carlo w  as  a  customarily  reckless  man. 
They  wanted  illegal  and  desperate  advice,  and 
quieted  down  to  hear  it.  He  spoke  in  his  profes 
sionally  calm  voice. 

"Gentlemen,  it  seems  to  me  that  Mr.  Smith  and 
Mr.  Ribshaw"  (nodding  to  the  man  with  the  raw 
hide  whip)  "are  both  right.  What  good  are  we 
doing  here?  WThat  we  want  to  know  is  what's  hap 
pened  to  Mr.  Harkless.  It  looks  just  now  like  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   217 

shell-men  might  have  done  it.  Let's  find  out  what 
they  done.  Scatter  and  hunt  for  him.  'Soon  as 
anything  is  known  for  certain,  Hibbard's  mill  whistle 
will  blow  three  times.  Keep  on  looking  till  it  does. 
Then,"  he  finished,  with  a  barely  perceptible  scorn 
ful  smile  at  the  attorney,  "then  we  can  decide  on 
what  had  ought  to  be  done." 

Six-Cross-Roads  lay  dark  and  steaming  in  the  sun 
that  morning.  The  forge  was  silent,  the  saloon 
locked  up,  the  roadway  deserted,  even  by  the  pigs. 
The  broken  old  buggy  stood  rotting  in  the  mud 
without  a  single  lean,  little  old  man  or  woman- 
such  were  the  children  of  the  Cross-Roads — to  play 
about  it.  The  fields  were  empty,  and  the  rag-stuffed 
windows  blank,  under  the  baleful  glance  of  the 
horsemen  who  galloped  by  at  intervals,  muttering 
curses,  not  always  confining  themselves  to  mutter 
ing  them.  Once,  when  the  deputy  sheriff  rode 
through  alone,  a  tattered  black  hound,  more  wolf 
than  dog,  half-emerged,  growling,  from  beneath  one 
of  the  tumble-down  barns,  and  was  jerked  back  into 
the  darkness  by  his  tail,  with  a  snarl  fiercer  than  his 
own,  while  a  gun-barrel  shone  for  a  second  as  it 
swung  for  a  stroke  on  the  brute's  head.  The  hound 


218  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

did  not  yelp  or  whine  when  the  blow  fell.  He  shut 
his  eyes  twice,  and  slunk  sullenly  back  to  his 
place. 

The  shanties  might  have  received  a  volley  or  two 
from  some  of  the  mounted  bands,  exasperated  by 
futile  searching,  had  not  the  escape  of  Homer's 
prisoners  made  the  guilt  of  the  Cross-Roads  appear 
doubtful  in  the  minds  of  many.  As  the  morning 
waned,  the  advocates  of  the  theory  that  the  gam 
blers  had  made  away  with  Harkless  grew  in  num 
ber.  There  came  a  telegram  from  the  Rouen  chief 
of  police  that  he  had  a  clew  to  their  whereabouts; 
he  thought  they  had  succeeded  in  reaching  Rouen, 
and  it  began  to  be  generally  believed  that  they  had 
escaped  by  the  one-o'clock  freight,  which  had 
stopped  to  take  on  some  empty  cars  at  a  side-track 
a  mile  northwest  of  the  town,  across  the  fields  from 
the  Briscoe  house.  Toward  noon  a  party  went  out 
to  examine  the  railroad  embankment. 

Men  began  to  come  back  into  the  village  for 
breakfast  by  twos  and  threes,  though  many  kept  on 
searching  the  woods,  not  feeling  the  need  of  food, 
or  caring  if  they  did.  Every  grove  and  clump  of 
underbrush,  every  thicket,  was  ransacked;  the  waters 
of  the  creek,  shallow  for  the  most  part,  but  swollen 


r 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  219 

overnight,  were  dragged  at  every  pool.  Nothing  was 
found;  there  was  not  a  sign. 

The  bar  of  the  hotel  was  thronged  all  morning  as 
the  returning  citizens  rapidly  made  their  way 
thither,  and  those  who  had  breakfasted  and  were 
going  out  again  paused  for  internal,  as  well  as  ex 
ternal,  reinforcement.  The  landlord,  himself  re 
turned  from  a  long  hunt,  set  up  his  whiskey  with  a 
lavish  hand. 

"He  was  the  best  man  we  had,  boys,"  said  Landis, 
as  he  poured  the  little  glasses  full.  "We'd  ort  of 
sent  him  to  the  legislative  halls  of  Washington  long 
ago.  He'd  of  done  us  honor  there;  but  we  never 
thought  of  doin'  anything  fer  him;  jest  set  'round 
and  let  him  build  up  the  town  and  give  him  empty 
thankyes.  Drink  hearty,  gentlemen,"  he  finished, 
gloomily,  "I  don't  grudge  no  liquor  to-day — except 
to  Lige  Willetts." 

"He  was  a  good  man,"  said  young  William  Todd, 
whose  nose  was  red,  not  from  the  whiskey.  "I've 
about  give  up." 

Schofields'  Henry  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  eyes. 
"He  was  the  only  man  in  this  whole  city  that  didn't 
jab  and  nag  at  me  when  I  done  my  best,"  he  ex 
claimed,  with  an  increasing  break  in  his  utterance. 


220  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Many  a  good  word  I've  had  from  him  when  no 
body  in  town  done  nothin'  but  laugh  an'  rile  an* 
badger  me  about  my — my  bell."  And  Schofields' 
Henry  began  to  cry  openly. 

"He  was  a  great  hand  with  the  chuldern,"  said 
one  man.  "Always  have  something  to  say  to  'em 
to  make  'em  laugh  when  he  went  by.  'Talk  more 
to  them  'n  he  would  to  grown  folks.  Yes,  sir." 

"They  knowed  him  all  right,"  added  another.  "I 
reckon  all  of  us  did,  little  and  big." 

"It's  goin'  to  seem  mighty  empty  around  here," 
said  Ross  Schofield.  "What's  goin'  to  become  o' 
the  'Herald'  and  the  party  in  this  district?  Where's 
the  man  to  run  either  of  'em  now.  Like  as  not," 
he  concluded  desperately,  "the  election  '11  go  against 
us  in  the  fall." 

Dibb  Zane  choked  over  his  four  fingers.  "We 
might's  well  bust  up  this  dab-dusted  ole  town  ef 
he's  gone." 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  over  that  Cynthy  Tip- 
worthy,"  said  the  landlord.  "She's  waited  table  on 
him  last  two  year,  and  her  brother  Bud  works  at  the 
'Herald'  office.  She  didn't  say  a  word — only  looked 
and  looked  and  looked — like  a  crazy  woman;  then 
her  and  Bud  went  off  together  to  hunt  in  the 


woods.  They  just  tuck  hold  of  each  other's  hands 
like " 

"That  ain't  nothin',"  Homer  Tibbs  broke  in. 
"You'd  ort  to've  saw  old  Miz  Hathaway,  that  wid- 
der  woman  next  door  to  us,  when  she  heard  it.  He 
had  helped  her  to  git  her  pension;  and  she  tuck  on 
worse  'n'  anything  I  ever  hear — lot  worse  'n'  when 
Hathaway  died." 

"I  reckon  there  ain't  many  crazier  than  them  two 
Bowlders,  father  and  son,"  said  the  postmaster,  wip 
ing  the  drops  from  his  beard  as  he  set  his  glass  on 
the  bar.  "They  rid  into  town  like  a  couple  of  wild 
Indians,  the  old  man  beatin'  that  gray  mare  o' 
theirn  till  she  was  one  big  welt,  and  he  ain't  natcherly 
no  cruel  man,  either.  I  reckon  Lige  Willetts  better 
keep  out  of  Hartley's  way." 

"I  keep  out  of  no  man's  way,"  cried  a  voice  be 
hind  him.  Turning,  they  saw  Lige  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  the  door  that  led  to  the  street.  In  his 
hand  he  held  the  bridle  of  the  horse  he  had  ridden 
across  the  sidewalk,  and  that  now  stood  panting, 
with  lowered  head,  half  through  the  doorway,  be 
side  his  master.  Lige  was  hatless,  splashed  with 
mud  from  head  to  foot;  his  jaw  was  set,  his  teeth 
ground  together;  his  eyes  burned  under  red  lids, 


222  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  his  hair  lay  tossed  and  damp  on  his  brow.  "I 
keep  out  of  no  man's  way,"  he  repeated,  hoarsely. 
"I  heard  you,  Mr.  Tibbs,  but  I've  got  too  much 
to  do,  while  you  loaf  and  gas  and  drink  over  Lum 
Landis's  bar — I've  got  other  business  than  keep 
ing  out  of  Hartley  Bowlder's  way.  I'm  looking 
for  John  Harkless.  He  was  the  best  man  we  had 
in  this  ornery  hole,  and  he  was  too  good  for  us, 
and  so  we've  maybe  let  him  get  killed,  and  maybe 
I'm  to  blame.  But  I'm  going  to  find  him,  and  if 
he's  hurt — damn  me!  I'm  going  to  have  a  hand  on 
the  rope  that  lifts  the  men  that  did  it,  if  I  have  to  go 
to  Rouen  to  put  it  there!  After  that  I'll  answer  for 
my  fault,  not  before!" 

He  threw  himself  on  his  horse  and  was  gone. 
Soon  the  room  was  emptied,  as  the  patrons  of  the 
bar  returned  to  the  search,  and  only  Mr.  Wilkerson 
and  the  landlord  remained,  the  bar  being  the  pro 
fessional  office,  so  to  speak,  of  both. 

Wilkerson  had  a  chair  in  a  corner,  where  he  sat 
chanting  a  funeral  march  in  a  sepulchral  murmur, 
allowing  a  parenthetical  hie  to  punctuate  the  dirge 
in  place  of  the  drum.  Whenever  a  batch  of  new 
comers  entered,  he  rose  to  drink  with  them;  and, 
at  such  times,  after  pouring  off  his  liquor  with  a 


THE  GENTLEl^AN  FROM  INDIANA  223 

rich  melancholy,  shedding  tears  after  every  swallow, 
he  would  make  an  exploring  tour  of  the  room  on  his 
way  back  to  his  corner,  stopping  to  look  under  each 
chair  inquiringly  and  ejaculate:  "Why,  where  kin 
he  be!"  Then,  shaking  his  head,  he  would  observe 
sadly:  "Fine  young  man,  he  was,  too;  fine  young 
man.  Pore  fellow!  I  reckon  we  hain't  a-goin'  to 
git  him." 

At  eleven  o'clock,  Judge  Briscoe  dropped  wearily 
from  his  horse  at  his  own  gate,  and  said  to  a  wan 
girl  who  came  running  down  the  walk  to  meet  him: 
"There  is  nothing,  yet.  I  sent  the  telegram  to  your 
mother — to  Mrs.  Sherwood." 

Helen  turned  away  without  answering.  Her  face 
was  very  white  and  looked  pinched  about  the  mouth. 
She  went  back  to  where  old  Fisbee  sat  on  the  porch, 
his  white  head  held  between  his  two  hands;  he  was 
rocking  himself  to  and  fro.  She  touched  him  gently, 
but  he  did  not  look  up.  She  spoke  to  him. 

"There  isn't  anything — yet.  He  sent  the  tele 
gram  to  mamma.  I  shall  stay  with  you,  now,  no 
matter  what  you  say."  She  sat  beside  him  and  put 
her  head  down  on  his  shoulder,  and  though  for  a 
moment  he  appeared  not  to  notice  it,  when  Minnie 
came  out  on  the  porch,  hearing  her  father  at  the 


224  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

door,  the  old  scholar  had  put  his  arm  about  the  girl 
and  was  stroking  her  fair  hair  softly. 

Briscoe  glanced  at  them,  and  raised  a  warning 
finger  to  his  daughter,  and  they  went  tiptoeing  into 
the  house,  where  the  judge  dropped  heavily  upon  a 
sofa  with  an  asthmatic  sigh;  he  was  worn  and  tired. 
Minnie  stood  before  him  with  a  look  of  pale  inquiry, 
and  he  shook  his  head. 

"No  use  to  tell  them;  but  I  can't  see  any  hope," 
he  answered  her,  biting  nervously  at  the  end  of  a 
cigar.  "I  expect  you  better  bring  me  some  coffee 
in  here;  I  couldn't  take  another  step  to  save  me. 
I'm  too  old  to  tear  around  the  country  horseback 
before  breakfast,  like  I  have  to-day." 

"Did  you  send  her  telegram?"  Minnie  asked,  as 
he  drank  the  coffee  she  brought  him.  She  had  in 
terpreted  "coffee"  liberally,  and,  with  the  assist 
ance  of  Mildy  Upton  (whose  subdued  nose  was 
frankly  red  and  who  shed  tears  on  the  raspberries), 
had  prepared  an  appetizing  table  at  his  elbow. 

"Yes,"  responded  the  judge,  "and  I'm  glad  she 
sent  it.  I  talked  the  other  way  yesterday,  what 
little  I  said — it  isn't  any  of  our  business — but  I  don't 
think  any  too  much  of  those  people,  somehow.  She 
thinks  she  belongs  with  Fisbee,  and  I  guess  she's 


THE  GENTLEMAN^ROM  INDIANA   225 

right.  That  young  fellow  must  have  got  along  with 
her  pretty  well,  and  I'm  afraid  when  she  gives  up 
she'll  be  pretty  bad  over  it;  but  I  guess  we  all  will. 
It's  terribly  sudden,  somehow,  though  it's  only  what 
everybody  half  expected  would  come;  only  we 

s. 

thought  it  would  come  from  over  yonder."  He 
nodded  toward  the  west.  "But  she's  got  to  stay 
here  with  us.  Boarding  at  Sol  Tibbs's  with  that  old 
man  won't  do;  and  she's  no  girl  to  live  in  two  rooms. 
You  fix  it  up  with  her — you  make  her  stay." 

"She  must,"  answered  his  daughter  as  she  knelt 
beside  him  and  patted  his  coat  and  handed  him 
several  things  to  eat  at  the  same  time.  "Mr.  Fisbee 
will  help  me  persuade  her,  now  that  she's  bound 
to  stay  in  spite  of  him  and  the  Sherwoods,  too. 
I  think  she  is  perfectly  grand  to  do  it.  I've  always 
thought  she  was  grand — ever  since  she  took  me 
under  her  wing  at  school  when  I  was  terribly  'coun 
try'  and  frightened;  but  she  was  so  sweet  and  kind 
she  made  me  forget.  She  was  the  pet  of  the  school,' 
too,  always  doing  things  for  the  other  girls,  for 
everybody;  looking  out  for  people  simply  heads 
and  heads  bigger  than  herself,  and  so  recklessly 
generous  and  so  funny  about  it;  and  always  thought 
ful  and — and — pleasant " 


226  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Minnie  was  speaking  sadly,  mechanically;  but 
suddenly  she  broke  off  with  a  quick  sob,  sprang  up 
and  went  to  the  window;  then,  turning,  cried  out: 

"I  don't  believe  it!  He  knew  how  to  take  care  of 
himself  too  well.  He'd  have  got  away  from 
them." 

Her  father  shook  his  head.  "Then  why  hasn't 
he  turned  up?  He'd  have  gone  home  after  the 
storm  if  something  bad  wasn't  the  matter." 

"But  nothing — nothing  that  bad  could  have  hap 
pened.    They  haven't  found — any — anything." 
"But  why  hasn't  he  come  back,  child?" 
"Well,  he's  lying  hurt  somewhere,  that's  all." 
"Then  why  haven't  they  found  him?" 
"I  don't  care!"  she  cried,  and  choked  with  the 
words   and    tossed   her   dishevelled   hair   from   her 
temples;  "it  isn't  true.    Helen  won't  believe  it — why 
should  I?    It's  only  a  few  hours  since  he  was  right 
here  in  our  yard,  talking  to  us  all.     I  won't  believe 
it  till   they've   searched   every   stick  and   stone   of 
Six-Cross-Roads  and  found  him." 

"It  wasn't  the  Cross-Roads,"  said  the  old  gentle 
man,  pushing  the  table  away  and  relaxing  his  limbs 
on  the  sofa.  "They  probably  didn't  have  anything 
to  do  with  it.  We  thought  they  had  at  first,  but 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  227 

everybody's  about  come  to  believe  it  was  those  two 
devils  that  he  had  arrested  yesterday." 

"Not  the  Cross-Roads!"  echoed  Minnie,  and  she 
began  to  tremble  violently.  "Haven't  they  been 
out  there  yet?" 

"What  use?  They  are  out  of  it,  and  they  can 
thank  God  they  are!" 

"They  are  not!"  she  cried  excitedly.  "They  did 
it.  It  was  the  White-Caps.  We  saw  them,  Helen 
and  I." 

The  judge  got  upon  his  feet  with  an  oath.  He 
had  not  sworn  for  years  until  that  morning. 
"What's  this?"  he  said  sharply. 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you  before,  but  we  were 
so  frightened,  and — and  you  went  off  in  such  a 
rush  after  Mr.  Wiley  was  here.  I  never  dreamed 
everybody  wouldn't  know  it  was  the  Cross-Roads; 
that  they  would  think  of  any  one  else.  And  I 
looked  for  the  scarecrow  as  soon  as  it  was  light  and 
it  was  'way  off  from  where  we  saw  them,  and  wasn't 
blown  down  at  all,  and  Helen  saw  them  in  the  field 
besides — saw  all  of  them — 

He  interrupted  her.  "What  do  you  mean?  Try 
to  tell  me  about  it  quietly,  child."  He  laid  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 


228  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

She  told  him  breathlessly  (while  he  grew  more 
and  more  visibly  perturbed  and  uneasy,  biting  his 
cigar  to  pieces  and  groaning  at  intervals)  what  she 
and  Helen  had  seen  in  the  storm.  When  she  fin 
ished  he  took  a  few  quick  turns  about  the  room  with 
his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  coat  pockets,  and  then, 
charging  her  to  repeat  the  story  to  no  one,  left  the 
house,  and,  forgetting  his  fatigue,  rapidly  crossed 
the  fields  to  the  point  where  the  bizarre  figures  of 
the  night  had  shown  themselves  to  the  two  girls 
at  the  window. 

The  soft  ground  had  been  trampled  by  many  feet. 
The  boot-prints  pointed  to  the  northeast.  He 
traced  them  backward  to  the  southwest  through 
the  field,  and  saw  where  they  had  come  from  near 
the  road,  going  northeast.  Then,  returning,  he 
climbed  the  fence  and  followed  them  northward 
through  the  next  field.  From  there,  the  next,  be 
yond  the  road  that  was  a  continuation  of  Main 
Street,  stretched  to  the  railroad  embankment.  The 
track,  raggedly  defined  in  trampled  loam  and  muddy 
furrow,  bent  in  a  direction  which  indicated  that  its 
terminus  might  be  the  switch  where  the  empty  cars 
had  stood  last  night,  waiting  for  the  one-o'clock 
freight.  Though  the  fields  had  been  trampled  down 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  229 

in  many  places  by  the  searching  parties,  he  felt 
sure  of  the  direction  taken  by  the  Cross-Roads  men, 
and  he  perceived  that  the  searchers  had  mistaken 
the  tracks  he  followed  for  those  of  earlier  parties 
in  the  hunt.  On  the  embankment  he  saw  a  number 
of  men,  walking  west  and  examining  the  ground 
on  each  side,  and  a  long  line  of  people  following 
them  out  from  town.  He  stopped.  He  held  the 
fate  of  Six-Cross-Roads  in  his  hand  and  he  knew  it. 

He  knew  that  if  he  spoke,  his  evidence  would 
damn  the  Cross-Roads,  and  that  it  meant  that  more 
than  the  White-Caps  would  be  hurt,  for  the  Cross- 
Roads  would  fight.  If  he  had  believed  that  the. 
dissemination  of  his  knowledge  could  have  helped 
Harkless,  he  would  have  called  to  the  men  near 
him  at  once;  but  he  had  no  hope  that  the  young 
man  was  alive.  They  would  not  have  dragged  him 
out  to  their  shanties  wounded,  or  as  a  prisoner;  such 
a  proceeding  would  have  courted  detection,  and, 
also,  they  were  not  that  kind;  they  had  been  "look 
ing  for  him"  a  long  time,  and  their  one  idea  was 
to  kill  him. 

And  Harkless,  for  all  his  gentleness,  was  the  sort 
of  man,  Briscoe  believed,  who  would  have  to  be 
killed  before  he  could  be  touched.  Of  one  thing 


230  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

the  old  gentleman  was  sure;  the  editor  had  not 
been  tied  up  and  whipped  while  yet  alive.  In  spite 
of  his  easy  manners  and  geniality,  there  was  a  dig 
nity  in  him  that  would  have  made  him  kill  and  be 
killed  before  the  dirty  fingers  of  a  Cross-Roads 
"White-Cap"  could  have  been  laid  upon  him  in 
chastisement.  A  great  many  good  Americans  of 
Carlow  who  knew  him  well  always  Mistered  him  as 
they  would  have  Mistered  only  an  untitled  Morton 
or  Hendricks  who  might  have  lived  amongst  them. 
He  was  the  only  man  the  old  darky,  Uncle  Xeno- 
phon,  had  ever  addressed  as  "Marse"  since  he  came 
to  Plattville,  thirty  years  ago. 

Brjscoe  considered  it  probable  that  a  few  people 
were  wearing  bandages,  in  the  closed  shanties  over 
to  the  west  to-day.  A  thought  of  the  number  they 
had  brought  against  one  man;  a  picture  of  the  un 
equal  struggle,  of  the  young  fellow  he  had  liked  so 
well,  unarmed  and  fighting  hopelessly  in  a  trap,  and 
a  sense  of  the  cruelty  of  it,  made  the  hot  anger 
surge  up  in  his  breast,  and  he  started  on  again. 
Then  he  stopped  once  more.  Though  long  retired 
from  faithful  service  on  the  bench,  he  had  been  all 
his  life  a  serious  exponent  of  the  law,  and  what  he 
went  to  tell  meant  lawlessness  that  no  one  could 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  231 

hope  to  check.  He  knew  the  temper  of  the  people; 
their  long  suffering  was  at  an  end,  and  they  would 
go  over  at  last  and  wipe  out  the  Cross-Roads.  It 
depended  on  him.  If  the  mob  could  be  held  off 
over  to-day,  if  men's  minds  could  cool  over  night, 
the  law  could  strike  and  the  innocent  and  the  hot 
headed  be  spared  from  suffering.  He  would  wait; 
he  would  lay  his  information  before  the  sheriff;  and 
Horner  would  go  quietly  with  a  strong  posse,  for 
he  would  need  a  strong  one.  He  began  to  retrace 
his  steps. 

The  men  on  the  embankment  were  walking 
slowly,  bending  far  over,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground.  Suddenly  one  of  them  stood  erect  and 
tossed  his  arms  in  the  air  and  shouted  loudly.  Other 
men  ran  to  him,  and  another  far  down  the  track 
repeated  the  shout  and  the  gesture  to  another  far  in 
his  rear;  this  man  took  it  up,  and  shouted  and  waved 
to  a  fourth  man,  and  so  they  passed  the  signal 
back  to  town.  There  came,  almost  immediately, 
three  long,  loud  whistles  from  a  mill  near  the  sta 
tion,  and  the  embankment  grew  black  with  people 
pouring  out  from  town,  while  the  searchers  came 
running  from  the  fields  and  woods  and  underbrush 
on  both  sides  of  the  railway. 


232  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Briscoe  paused  for  the  last  time;  then  he  began 
to  walk  slowly  toward  the  embankment. 

The  track  lay  level  and  straight,  not  dimming  in 
the  middle  distances,  the  rails  converging  to  points, 
both  northwest  and  southeast,  in  the  clean-washed 
air,  like  examples  of  perspective  in  a  child's  draw 
ing-book.  About  seventy  miles  to  the  west  and 
north  lay  Rouen;  and,  in  the  same  direction,  nearly 
six  miles  from  where  the  signal  was  given,  the  track 
was  crossed  by  a  road  leading  directly  south  to 
Six-Cross-Roads. 

The  embankment  had  been  newly  ballasted  with 
sand.  What  had  been  discovered  was  a  broad 
brown  stain  on  the  south  slope  near  the  top.  There 
were  smaller  stains  above  and  below;  none  beyond 
it  to  left  or  right;  and  there  were  deep  boot-prints 
in  the  sand.  Men  were  examining  the  place  ex 
citedly,  talking  and  gesticulating.  It  was  Lige 
Willetts  who  had  found  it.  His  horse  was  tethered 
to  a  fence  near  by,  at  the  end  of  a  lane  through  a 
cornfield.  Jared  Wiley,  the  deputy,  was  talking 
to  a  group  near  the  stain,  explaining. 

"You  see  them  two  must  have  knowed  about  the 
one-o'clock  freight,  and  that  it  was  to  stop  here  to 
take  on  the  empty  lumber  cars.  I  don't  know  how 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM.  INDIANA  233 

they  knowed  it,  but  they  did.  It  was  this  way: 
when  they  dropped  from  the  window,  they  beat 
through  the  storm,  straight  for  this  side-track.  At 
the  same  time  Mr.  Harkless  leaves  Briscoes'  goin' 
west.  It  begins  to  rain.  He  cuts  across  to  the 
railroad  to  have  a  sure  footing,  and  strikin'  for  the 
deepo  for  shelter — near  place  as  any  except  Briscoes' 
^here  he'd  said  good-night  already  and  prob'ly 
don't  wish  to  go  back,  'fear  of  givin'  trouble  or 
keepin'  'em  up — anybody  can  understand  that.  He 
comes  along,  and  gets  to  where  we  are  precisely  at 
the  time  they  do,  them  comin'  from  town,  him 
strikin'  for  it.  They  run  right  into  each  other. 
That's  what  happened.  They  re-cogr-nized  him  and 
raised  up  on  him  and  let  him  have  it.  What  they 
done  it  with,  I  don't  know;  we  took  everything  in 
that  line  off  of  'em;  prob'ly  used  railroad  iron; 
and  what  they  done  with  him  afterwards  we  don't 
know;  but  we  will  by  night.  They'll  sweat  it  out 
of  'em  up  at  Rouen  when  they  get  'em." 

"I  reckon  maybe  some  of  us  might  help,"  re 
marked  Mr.  Watts,  reflectively. 

Jim  Bardlock  swore  a  violent  oath.  "That's  the 
talk!"  he  shouted.  "Ef  I  ain't  the  first  man  of 
this  crowd  to  set  my  foot  in  Roowun,  an'  first  to 


234  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

* 

beat  in  that  jail  door,  an'  take  'em  out  an'  hang 
'em  by  the  neck  till  they're  dead,  dead,  dead,  I'm 
not  Town  Marshal  of  Plattville,  County  of  Carlow, 
State  of  Indiana,  and  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  our 
souls!" 

Tom  Martin  looked  at  the  brown  stain  and 
quickly  turned  away;  then  he  went  back  slowly  to 
the  village.  On  the  way  he  passed  Warren  Smith. 

"Is  it  so?"  asked  the  lawyer. 

Martin  answered  with  a  dry  throat.  He  looked 
out  dimly  over  the  sunlit  fields,  and  swallowed  once 
or  twice.  "Yes,  it's  so.  There's  a  good  deal  of  it 
there.  Little  more  than  a  boy  he  was."  The  old 
fellow  passed  his  seamy  hand  over  his  eyes  without 
concealment.  "Peter  ain't  very  bright,  sometimes, 
it  seems  to  me,"  he  added,  brokenly;  "overlook 
Bodeffer  and  Fisbee  and  me  and  all  of  us  old  husks, 
and — and—  '  he  gulped  suddenly,  then  finished— 
"and  act  the  fool  and  take  a  boy  that's  the  best  we 
had.  I  wish  the  Almighty  would  take  Peter  off  the 
gate;  he  ain't  fit  fer  it." 

When  the  attorney  reached  the  spot  where  the 
crowd  was  thickest,  way  was  made  for  him.  The 
old  colored  man,  Xenophon,  approached  at  the 
same  time,  leaning  on  a  hickory  stick  and  bent 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  235 

yery  far  over,  one  hand  resting  on  his  hip  as  if  to 
ease  a  rusty  joint.  The  negro's  age  was  an  incentive 
to  fable;  from  his  appearance  he  might  have  known 
the  prophets,  and  he  wore  that  hoary  look  of  un 
earthly  wisdom  many  decades  of  superstitious 
experience  sometimes  give  to  members  of  his  race. 
His  face,  so  tortured  with  wrinkles  that  it  might 
have  been  made  of  innumerable  black  threads 
woven  together,  was  a  living  mask  of  the  mystery 
of  his  blood.  Harkless  had  once  said  that  Uncle 
Xenophon  had  visited  heaven  before  Swedenborg 
and  hell  before  Dante.  To-day,  as  he  slowly  limped 
over  the  ties,  his  eyes  were  bright  and  dry  under 
the  solemn  lids,  and,  though  his  heavy  nostrils  were 
unusually  distended  in  the  effort  for  regular  breath 
ing,  the  deeply  puckered  lips  beneath  them  were 
set  firmly. 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  the  faces  before  him. 
When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  gentle,  and  though 
the  tremulousness  of  age  harped  on  the  vocal  strings, 
it  was  rigidly  controlled.  "Kin  some  kine  gelmun," 
he  asked,  "please  t'be  so  good  ez  t'  show  de  ole 
main  whuh  de  Wite-Caips  is  done  shoot  Marse 
Hawkliss?" 

"Here  was  where  it  happened,  Uncle  Zen,"  an- 


236  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

swered  Wiley,  leaning  him  forward.  "Here  is  the 
stain." 

Xenophon  bent  over  the  spot  on  the  sand,  making 
little  odd  noises  in  his  throat.  Then  he  painfully 
resumed  his  former  position.  "Dass  his  blood," 
he  said,  in  the  same  gentle,  quavering  tone.  "Dass 
my  bes'  frien'  whut  lay  on  de  groun'  whuh  yo 
staind,  gelmun." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  no  one  spoke. 

"Dass  whuh  day  laid  'im  an'  dass  whuh  he  lie," 
the  old  negro  continued.  "Dey  shot  'im  in  de  fiel's. 
Dey  ain'  shot  'im  hear — yondeh  dey  drugged  'im, 
but  dis  whuh  he  lie."  He  bent  over  again,  then 
knelt,  groaningly,  and  placed  his  hand  on  the  stain, 
one  would  have  said,  as  a  man  might  place  his 
hand  over  a  heart  to  see  if  it  still  beat.  He  was 
motionless,  with  the  air  of  hearkening. 

"Marse,  honey,  is  you  gone?"  He  raised  his 
voice  as  if  calling,  "Is  you  gone,  suh? — Marse?" 

He  looked  up  at  the  circle  about  him,  and,  still 
kneeling,  not  taking  his  hand  from  the  sand,  seem 
ing  to  wait  for  a  sign,  to  listen  for  a  voice,  he  said: 
"Whafo5  you  gelmun  think  de  good  Lawd  summon 
Marse  Hawkliss?  Kaze  he  de  mos'  fittes'?  You 
know  dat  man  he  ketch  me  in  de  cole  night,  wintuh 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  237 

'fo'  lais',  stealin'  'is  wood.  You  know  whut  he  done 
t'de  ole  thief?  Tek  an'  buil'  up  big  fiah  een  ole  Zen' 
shainty;  say,  'He'p  yo'se'f  an'  welcome.  Reckon 
you  hongry,  too,  ain'  you,  Xenophon?'  Tek  an' 
feed  me.  Tek  an'  tek  keer  o'  me  ev'  since.  Ah 
pump  de  baith  full  in  de  mawin';  mek  'is  bed;  pull 
de  weeds  out'n  of  de  front  walk — dass  all.  He  tek 
me  in.  Wken  Ah  aisk  'im  ain'  he  fraid  keep  ole 
thief  he  Say,  jesso:  'Dass  all  my  fault,  Xenophon; 
ought  look  you  up  long  'go;  ought  know  long  'go 
you  be  cole  dese  baid  nights.  Reckon  Ahm  de 
thievenest  one  us  two,  Xenophon,  keepin'  all  dis 
wood  stock'  up  when  you  got  none,'  he  say,  jesso. 
Tek  me  in;  say  he  lahk  a  thief.  Pay  me  sala'y. 
Feed  me.  Dass  de  main  whut  de  Caips  gone  shot 
lais'  night."  He  raised  his  head  sharply,  and  the 
mystery  in  his  gloomy  eyes  intensified  as  they 
opened  wide  and  stared  at  the  sky,  unseeingly. 

"Ise  bawn  wid  a  cawl!"  he  exclaimed,  loudly. 
His  twisted  frame  was  braced  to  an  extreme  tension. 
"Ise  bawn  wid  a  cawl!  De  blood  anssuh!" 

"It  wasn't  the  Cross-Roads,  Uncle  Xenophon," 
said  Warren  Smith,  laying  his  hand  on  the  old  man's 
shoulder. 

Xenophon  rose  to  his  feet.     He  stretched  a  long, 


238  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

bony  arm  straight  to  the  west,  where  the  Cross- 
Roads  lay;  stood  rigid  and  silent,  like  a  seer;  then 
spoke: 

"De  men  whut  shot  Marse  Hawkliss  lies  yondeh, 
hidin'  f'um  de  light  o'  day.  An'  him" — he  swerved 
his  whole  rigid  body  till  the  arm  pointed  northwest 
—"he  lies  yondeh.  You  won't  find  him  heah.  Dey 
fought  'im  een  de  fiel's  an'  dey  druggen  'im  heah. 
Dis  whuh  dey  lay  'im  down.  Ise  bawn  wid  a 
cawl!" 

There  were  exclamations  from  the  listeners,  for 
Xenophon  spoke  as  one  having  authority.  Sud 
denly  he  turned  and  pointed  his  outstretched  hand 
full  at  Judge  Briscoe. 

"An'  dass  de  main,"  he  cried,  "dass  de  main  kin 
tell  you  Ah  speak  de  trufe." 

Before  he  was  answered,  Eph  Watts  looked  at 
Briscoe  keenly  and  then  turned  to  Lige  Willetts 
and  whispered:  "Get  on  your  horse,  ride  in,  and 
ring  the  court-house  bell  like  the  devil.  Do  as  I 
say!" 

Tears  stood  in  the  judge's  eyes.  "It  is  so,"  he 
said,  solemnly.  "He  speaks  the  truth.  I  didn't 
mean  to  tell  it  to-day,  but  somehow—  He  paused. 
"The  hounds!"  he  cried.  "They  deserve  it!  My 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  239 

daughter  saw  them  crossing  the  fields  in  the  night — 
saw  them  climb  the  fence,  hoods,  gowns,  and  all,  a 
big  crowd  of  them.  She  and  the  lady  who  is  visiting 
us  saw  them,  saw  them  plainly.  The  lady  saw  them 
several  times,  clear  as  day,  by  the  flashes  of  light 
ning — the  scoundrels  were  coming  this  way.  They 
must  have  been  dragging  him  with  them  then.  He 
couldn't  h&,ve  had  a  show  for  his  life  amongst  them. 
Do  what  you  like — maybe  they've  got  him  at  the 
Cross-Roads.  If  there's  a  chance  of  it — dead  or 
alive — bring  him  back!" 

A  voice  rang  out  above  the  clamor  that  followed 
the  judge's  speech. 

'"Bring  him  back!'  God  could,  maybe,  but  He 
won't.  Who's  travelling  my  way?  I  go  west!" 
Hartley  Bowlder  had  ridden  his  sorrel  up  the  em 
bankment,  and  the  horse  stood  between  the  rails. 

There  was  an  angry  roar  from  the  crowd;  the 
prosecutor  pleaded  and  threatened  unheeded;  and  as 
for  the  deputy  sheriff,  he  declared  his  intention  of 
taking  with  him  all  who  wished  to  go  as  his  posse. 
Eph  Watts  succeeded  in  making  himself  heard  above 
the  tumult. 

"The  Square!"  he  shouted.  "Start  from  the 
Square.  We  want  everybody,  and  we'll  need  them. 


240  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

We  want  every  one  in  Carlow  to  be  implicated  in 
this  posse." 

"They  will  be!"  shouted  a  farmer.  "Don't  you 
worry  about  that." 

"We  want  to  get  into  some  sort  of  shape,"  cried 
Eph. 

"Shape,  hell!"  said  Hartley  Bowlder. 

There  was  a  hiss  and  clang  and  rattle  behind  him, 
and  a  steam  whistle  shrieked.  The  crowd  divided, 
and  Hartley's  sorrel  jumped  just  in  time  as  the  west 
bound  accommodation  rushed  through  on  its  way  to 
Rouen.  From  the  rear  platform  leaned  the  sheriff, 
Homer,  waving  his  hands  frantically  as  he  flew  by, 
but  no  one  understood — or  cared — what  he  said,  or, 
in  the  general  excitement,  even  wondered  why  he 
was  leaving  the  scene  of  his  duty  at  such  a  time* 
When  the  train  had  dwindled  to  a  dot  and  disap 
peared,  and  the  noise  of  its  rush  grew  faint,  the 
court-house  bell  was  heard  ringing,  and  the  mob 
was  piling  pell-mell  into  the  village  to  form  on  the 
Square.  The  judge  stood  alone  on  the  embank 
ment. 

"That  settles  it,"  he  said  aloud,  gloomily,  watch 
ing  the  last  figures.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  pushed 
back  the  thick,  white  hair  from  his  forehead.  "Noth- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   241 

ing  to  do  but  wait.  Might  as  well  go  home  for  that. 
Blast  it!"  he  exclaimed,  impatiently.  "I  don't  want 
to  go  there.  It's  too  hard  on  the  little  girl.  If  she 
hadn't  come  till  next  week  she'd  never  have  known 
John  Harkless." 


CHAPTER  XI 

JOHN  BROWN'S  BODY 

ALL  morning  horsemen  had  been  galloping 
through  Six-Cross-Roads,  sometimes  singly, 
oftener  in  company.  At  one-o'clock  the 
last  posse  passed  through  on  its  return  to  the  county- 
seat,  and  after  that  there  was  a  long,  complete  si 
lence,  while  the  miry  corners  were  undisturbed  by  a 
single  hoof-beat.  No  unkempt  colt  nickered  from 
his  musty  stall;  the  sparse  young  corn  that  was  used 
to  rasp  and  chuckle  greenly  stood  rigid  in  the  fields. 
Up  the  Plattville  pike  despairingly  cackled  one  old 
hen,  with  her  wabbling  sailor  run,  smit  with  a 
superstitious  horror  of  nothing,  in  the  stillness;  she 
hid  herself  in  the  shadow  underneath  a  rickety  barn, 
and  her  shrieking  ceased. 

Only  on  the  Wimby  farm  were  there  signs  of  life. 
The  old  lady  who  had  sent  Harkless  roses  sat  by 
the  window  all  morning  and  wiped  her  eyes,  watch 
ing  the  horsemen  ride  by;  sometimes  they  would 

hail  her  and  tell  her  there  was  nothing  yet.    About 

242 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  243 

two-o'clock,  her  husband  "rattled  up  in  a  buckboard, 
and  got  out  the  late,  and  more  authentic,  Mr. 
Wimby's  shot-gun,  which  he  carefully  cleaned  and 
oiled,  in  spite  of  its  hammerless  and  quite  useless 
condition,  sitting,  meanwhile,  by  the  window  oppo 
site  his  wife,  and  often  looking  up  from  his  work  to 
shake  his  weak  fist  at  his  neighbors'  domiciles  and 
creak  decrepit  curses  and  denunciations. 

But  the  Cross-Roads  was  ready.  It  knew  what 
wa^  coming  now.  Frightened,  desperate,  sullen,  it 
was  ready. 

The  afternoon  wore  on,  and  lengthening  shadows 
fell  upon  a  peaceful — one  would  have  said,  a  sleep 
ing — country.  The  sun-dried  pike,  already  dusty, 
stretched  its  serene  length  between  green  borders 
flecked  with  purple  and  yellow  and  white  weed- 
flowers;  and  the  tree  shadows  were  not  shade,  but 
warm  blue  and  lavender  glows  in  the  general  per 
vasion  of  still,  bright  light,  the  sky  curving  its  deep, 
unburnished,  penetrable  blue  over  all,  with  no  single 
drift  of  fleece  upon  it  to  be  reflected  in  the  creek  that 
wound  along  past  willow  and  sycamore.  A  wood 
pecker's  telegraphy  broke  the  quiet  like  a  volley  of 
pistol  shots. 

But  far  eastward  on  the  pike  there  slowly  devel- 


244  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

oped  a  soft,  white  haze.  It  grew  denser  and  larger. 
Gradually  it  rolled  nearer.  Dimly  behind  it  could 
be  discerned  a  darker,  moving  nucleus  that  extended 
far  back  upon  the  road.  A  heavy  tremor  began  to 
stir  the  air — faint  manifold  sounds,  a  waxing,  in 
creasing,  multitudinous  rumor. 

The  pike  ascended  a  long,  slight  slope  leading 
west  up  to  the  Cross-Roads.  From  a  thicket  of 
iron-weed  at  the  foot  of  this  slope  was  thrust  the 
hard,  lean  visage  of  an  undersized  girl  of  fourteen. 
Her  fierce  eyes  examined  the  approaching  cloud  of 
dust  intently.  A  redness  rose  under  the  burnt  yel 
low  skin  and  colored  the  wizened  cheeks. 

They  were  coming. 

She  stepped  quickly  out  of  the  tangle,  and  darted 
up  the  road,  running  with  the  speed  of  a  fleet  little 
terrier,  not  opening  her  lips,  not  calling  out,  but 
holding  her  two  thin  hands  high  above  her  head. 
That  was  all.  But  Birnam  wood  was  come  to  Dun- 
sinane  at  last,  and  the  messenger  sped.  Out  of  the 
weeds  in  the  corners  of  the  snake  fence,  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  rise,  silently  lifted  the  heads  of  men 
whose  sallowness  became  a  sickish  white  as  the  child 
flew  by. 

The   mob    was   carefully   organized.      They   had 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  245 

taken  their  time  and  had  prepared  everything  de 
liberately,  knowing  that  nothing  could  stop  them. 
No  one  had  any  thought  of  concealment;  it  was  all 
as  open  as  the  light  of  day,  all  done  in  the  broad 
sunshine.  Nothing  had  been  determined  as  to  what 
was  to  be  done  at  the  Cross-Roads  more  definite 
than  that  the  place  was  to  be  wiped  out.  That  was 
comprehensive  enough ;  the  details  were  quite  cer 
tain  to  occur.  They  were  all  on  foot,  inarching  in 
fairly  regular  ranks.  In  front  walked  Mr.  Watts, 
the  man  Harkless  had  abhorred  in  a  public  spirit 
and  befriended  in  private — to-day  he  was  a  hero  and 
a  leader,  marching  to  avenge  his  professional  op 
pressor  and  personal  brother.  Cool,  unruffled,  and, 
to  outward  vision,  unarmed,  marching  the  miles  in 
his  brown  frock  coat  and  generous  linen,  his  care 
fully  creased  trousers  neatly  turned  up  out  of  the 
dust,  he  led  the  way.  On  one  side  of  him  were  the 
two  Bowlders,  on  the  other  was  Lige  Willetts,  Mr. 
Watts  preserving  peace  between  the  two  young  men 
with  perfect  tact  and  sang-froid. 

They  kept  good  order  and  a  similitude  of  quiet  for 
so  many,  except  far  to  the  rear,  where  old  Wilkerson 
was  bringing  up  the  tail  of  the  procession,  dragging 
a  wretched  yellow  dog  by  a  slip-noose  fastened 


246  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

around  the  poor  cur's  protesting  neck,  the  knot 
carefully  arranged  under  his  right  ear.  In  spite  of 
every  command  and  protest,  Wilkerson  had  marched 
the  whole  way  uproariously  singing,  "John  Brown's 
Body." 

The  sun  was  in  the  west  when  they  came  in  sight 
of  the  Cross-Roads,  and  the  cabins  on  the  low  slope 
stood  out  angularly  against  the  radiance  beyond. 
As  they  beheld  the  hated  settlement,  the  heretofore 
orderly  ranks  showed  a  disposition  to  depart  from 
the  steady  advance  and  rush  the  shanties.  Willetts, 
the  Bowlders,  Parker,  Ross,  Schofield,  and  fifty 
others  did,  in  fact,  break  away  and  set  a  sharp  pace 
up  the  slope. 

Watts  tried  to  call  them  back.  "What's  the  use 
your  gettin'  killed?"  he  shouted. 

"Why  not?"  answered  Lige,  who,  like  the  others, 
was  increasing  his  speed  when  old  "Wimby"  rose 
up  suddenly  from  the  roadside  ahead  of  them,  and 
motioned  them  frantically  to  go  back.  "They're 
laid  out  along  the  fence,  waitin'  fer  ye,"  he  warned 
them.  "Git  out  the  road.  Come  by  the  fields. 
Fer  the  Lord's  sake,  spread!"  Then,  as  suddenly 
as  he  had  appeared,  he  dropped  down  into  the  weeds 
again.  Lige  and  those  with  him  paused,  and  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  247 

whole  body  came  to  a  halt  while  the  leaders  con 
sulted.  There  was  a  sound  of  metallic  clicking  and 
a  thin  rattle  of  steel.  From  far  to  the  rear  came  the 
voice  of  old  Wilkerson: 

"John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  ground, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  ground — " 

A  few  near  him,  as  they  stood  waiting,  began  to 
take  up  the  burden  of  the  song,  singing  in  slow  time 
like  a  dirge;  then  those  further  away  took  it  up;  it 
spread,  reached  the  leaders;  they,  too,  began  to  sing, 
taking  off  their  hats  as  they  joined  in;  and  soon  the 

-J 

whole  concourse,  solemn,  earnest,  and  uncovered, 
was  singing — a  thunderous  requiem  for  John  Hark- 
less. 

The  sun  was  swinging  lower  and  the  edges  of  the 
world  were  embroidered  with  gold  while  that  deep 
volume  of  sound  shook  the  air,  the  song  of  a  stern, 
savage,  just  cause — sung,  perhaps,  as  some  of  the 
ancestors  of  these  men  sang  with  Hampden  before 
the  bristling  walls  of  a  hostile  city.  It  had  iron  and 
steel  in  it.  The  men  lying  on  their  guns  in  the  am 
buscade  along  the  fence  heard  the  dirge  rise  and 
grow  to  its  mighty  fulness,  and  they  shivered.  One 
of  them,  posted  nearest  the  advance,  had  his  rifle 
carefully  levelled  at  Lige  Willetts,  a  fair  target  in  the 


248  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

road.  When  he  heard  the  singing,  he  turned  to  the 
man  next  behind  him  and  laughed  harshly:  "I 
reckon  we'll  see  a  big  jamboree  in  hell  to-night, 
huh?" 

The  huge  murmur  of  the  chorus  expanded,  and 
gathered  in  rhythmic  strength,  and  swelled  to  power, 
and  rolled  and  thundered  across  the  plain. 

"John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  ground, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  ground, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  ground, 

His  soul  goes  marching  on! 
Glory!     Glory!     Hallelujah! 
Glory!     Glory!     Hallelujah! 
Glory!     Glory!     Hallelujah! 

His  soul  goes  marching  on!" 

A  gun  spat  from  the  higher  ground,  and  Wil- 
letts  dropped  where  he  stood,  but  was  up  again  in 
a  second,  with  a  red  line  across  his  forehead  where 
the  ball  had  grazed  his  temple.  Then  the  mob 
spread  out  like  a  fan,  hundreds  of  men  climbing  the 
fence  and  beginning  the  advance  through  the  fields, 
closing  on  the  ambuscade  from  both  sides.  Mr. 
Watts,  wading  through  the  high  grass  in  the  field 
north  of  the  road,  perceived  the  barrel  of  a  gun  shin 
ing  from  a  bush  some  distance  in  front  of  him,  and, 
although  in  the  same  second  no  weapon  was  seen  in 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  249 

his  hand,  discharged  a  revolver  at  the  bush  behind 
the  gun.  Instantly  ten  or  twelve  men  leaped  from 
their  hiding-places  along  the  fences  of  both  fields, 
and,  firing  hurriedly  and  harmlessly  into  the  scat 
tered  ranks  of  the  oncoming  mob,  broke  for  the 
shelter  of  the  houses,  where  their  fellows  were 
posted.  Taken  on  the  flanks  and  from  the  rear, 
there  was  but  one  thing  for  them  to  do  to  keep  from 
being  hemmed  in  and  shot  or  captured.  (They  ex 
cessively  preferred  being  shot.)  With  a  wild,  high, 
joyous  yell,  sounding  like  the  bay  of  young  hounds 
breaking  into  view  of  their  quarry,  the  Plattville 
men  followed. 

The  most  eastward  of  the  debilitated  edifices  of 
Six-Cross-Roads  was  the  saloon,  which  bore  the 
painted  legends:  on  the  west  wall,  "Last  Chance"; 
on  the  east  wall,  "First  Chance."  Next  to  this,  and 
separated  by  two  or  three  acres  of  weedy  vacancy 
from  the  corners  where  the  population  centred 
thickest,  stood — if  one  may  so  predicate  of  a  build 
ing  which  leaned  in  seven  directions — the  house  of 
Mr.  Robert  Skillett,  the  proprietor  of  the  saloon. 
Both  buildings  were  shut  up  as  tight  as  their  state 
of  repair  permitted.  As  they  were  furthest  to  the 
east,  they  formed  the  nearest  shelter,  and  to  them 


250  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

the  Cross-Readers  bent  their  flight,  though  they 
stopped  not  here,  but  disappeared  behind  Skillett's 
shanty,  putting  it  between  them  and  their  pursuers, 
whose  guns  were  beginning  to  speak.  The  fugitives 
had  a  good  start,  and,  being  the  picked  runners 
of  the  Cross-Roads,  they  crossed  the  open,  weedy 
acres  in  safety  and  made  for  their  homes.  Every 
house  had  become  a  fort,  and  the  defenders  would 
have  to  be  fought  and  torn  out  one  by  one.  As  the 
guns  sounded,  a  woman  in  a  shanty  near  the  forge 
began  to  scream,  and  kept  on  screaming. 

On  came  the  farmers  and  the  men  of  Plattville. 
They  took  the  saloon  at  a  run;  battered  down  the 
crazy  doors  with  a  fence-rail,  and  swarmed  inside 
like  busy  insects,  making  the  place  hum  like  a  hive, 
but  with  the  hotter  industries  of  destruction.  It 
was  empty  of  life  as  a  tomb,  but  they  beat  and  tore 
and  battered  and  broke  and  hammered  and  shat 
tered  like  madmen;  they  reduced  the  tawdry  interior 
to  a  mere  chaos,  and  came  pouring  forth  laden  with 
trophies  of  ruin.  And  then  there  was  a  charry  smell 
in  the  air,  and  a  slender  feather  of  smoke  floated  up 
from  a  second-story  window. 

At  the  same  time  Watts  led  an  assault  on  the  ad 
joining  house — an  assault  which  came  to  a  sudden 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  251 

pause,  for,  from  cracks  in  the  front  wall,  a  squirrel- 
rifle  and  a  shot-gun  snapped  and  banged,  and  the 
crowd  fell  back  in  disorder.  Homer  Tibbs  had  a  hat 
blown  away,  full  of  buck-shot  holes,  while  Mr. 
Watts  solicitously  examined  a  small  aperture  in  the 
skirts  of  his  brown  coat.  The  house  commanded 
the  road,  and  the  rush  of  the  mob  into  the  village 
was  checked,  but  only  for  the  instant. 

A  rickety  woodshed,  which  formed  a  portion  of 
the  Skillett  mansion,  closely  joined  the  "Last 
Chance"  side  of  the  family  place  of  business. 
Scarcely  had  the  guns  of  the  defenders  sounded, 
when,  with  a  loud  shout,  Lige  Willetts  leaped  from 
an  upper  window  on  that  side  of  the  burning  saloon 
and  landed  on  the  woodshed,  and,  immediately 
climbing  the  roof  of  the  house  itself,  applied  a  fiery 
brand  to  the  time-worn  clapboards.  Ross  Schofield 
dropped  on  the  shed,  close  behind  him,  his  arm  lov 
ingly  enfolding  a  gallon  jug  of  whiskey,  which  he 
emptied  (not  without  evident  regret)  upon  the  clap 
boards  as  Lige  fired  them.  Flames  burst  forth  al 
most  instantly,  and  the  smoke,  uniting  with  that 
now  rolling  out  of  every  window  of  the  saloon,  went 
up  to  heaven  in  a  cumbrous,  gray  column. 

As  the  flames  began  to  spread,  there  was  a  rapid 


252  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

fusillade  from  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  a  hundred 
men  and  more,  who  had  kept  on  through  the  fields 
to  the  north,  assailed  it  from  behind.  Their  shots 
passed  clear  through  the  flimsy  partitions,  and  there 
was  a  horrid  screeching,  like  a  beast's  howls,  from 
within.  The  front  door  was  thrown  open,  and  a 
lean,  fierce-eyed  girl,  with  a  case-knife  in  her  hand, 
ran  out  in  the  face  of  the  mob.  At  sound  of  the 
shots  in  the  rear  they  had  begun  to  advance  on  the 
house  a  second  time,  and  Hartley  Bowlder  was  the 
nearest  man  to  the  girl.  With  awful  words,  and 
shrieking  inconceivably,  she  made  straight  at  Hart 
ley,  and  attacked  him  with  the  knife.  She  struck  at 
him  again  and  again,  and,  in  her  anguish  of  hate  and 
fear,  was  so  extraordinary  a  spectacle  that  she 
gained  for  her  companions  the  four  or  five  seconds 
they  needed  to  escape  from  the  house.  As  she 
hurled  herself  alone  at  the  oncoming  torrent,  they 
sped  from  the  door  unnoticed,  sprang  over  the  fence, 
and  reached  the  open  lots  to  the  west  before  they 
were  seen  by  Willetts  from  the  roof. 

"Don't  let  'em  fool  you!"  he  shouted.  "Look  to 
your  left!  There  they  go!  Don't  let 'em  get  away." 

The  Cross-Roaders  were  running  across  the  field. 
They  were  Bob  Skillett  and  his  younger  brother, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  253 

and  Mr.  Skillett  was  badly  damaged:  he  seemed  to 
be  holding  his  jaw  on  his  face  with  both  hands.  The 
girl  turned,  and  sped  after  them.  She  was  over  the 
fence  almost  as  soon  as  they  were,  and  the  three  ran 
in  single  file,  the  girl  last.  She  was  either  magnifi 
cently  sacrificial  and  fearless,  or  she  cunningly  cal 
culated  that  the  regulators  would  take  no  chances 
of  killing  a  woman-child,  for  she  kept  between  their 
guns  and  her  two  companions,  trying  to  cover  and 
shield  the  latter  with  her  frail  body. 

"Shoot,  Lige,"  called  Watts.  "If  we  fire  from 
here  we'll  hit  the  girl.  Shoot!" 

Willetts  and  Ross  Schofield  were  still  standing  on 
the  roof,  at  the  edge,  out  of  the  smoke,  and  both 
fired  at  the  same  time.  The  fugitives  did  not  turn; 
they  kept  on  running,  and  they  had  nearly  reached 
the  other  side  of  the  field,  when  suddenly,  without 
any  premonitory  gesture,  the  elder  Skillett  dropped 
flat  on  his  face.  The  Cross-Roaders  stood  by  each 
other  that  day,  for  four  or  five  men  ran  out  of  the 
nearest  shanty  into  the  open,  lifted  the  prostrate 
figure  from  the  ground,  and  began  to  carry  it  back 
with  them.  But  Mr.  Skillett  was  alive;  his  curses 
were  heard  above  all  other  sounds.  Lige  and  Scho 
field  fired  again,  and  one  of  the  rescuers  staggered. 


254  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Nevertheless,  as  the  two  men  slid  down  from  the 
roof,  the  burdened  Cross-Roaders  were  seen  to 
break  into  a  run;  and  at  that,  with  another  yell, 
fiercer,  wilder,  more  joyous  than  the  first,  the  Platt- 
ville  men  followed. 

The  yell  rang  loudly  in  the  ears  of  old  Wilkerson, 
who  had  remained  back  in  the  road,  and  at  the 
same  instant  he  heard  another  shout  behind  him. 
Mr.  Wilkerson  had  not  shared  in  the  attack,  but, 
greatly  preoccupied  with  his  own  histrionic  affairs, 
was  proceeding  up  the  pike  alone — except  for  the 
unhappy  yellow  mongrel,  still  dragged  along  by  the 
slip-noose — and  alternating,  as  was  his  natural 
wont,  from  one  fence  to  the  other;  crouching  behind 
every  bush  to  fire  an  imaginary  rifle  at  his  dog, 
and  then  springing  out,  with  triumphant  bello wings, 
to  fall  prone  upon  the  terrified  animal.  It  was 
after  one  of  these  victories  that  a  shout  of  warning 
was  raised  behind  him,  and  Mr.  Wilkerson,  by 
grace  of  the  god  Bacchus,  rolling  out  of  the  way  in 
time  to  save  his  life,  saw  a  horse  dash  by  him — a 
big,  black  horse  whose  polished  flanks  were  drippiug 
with  lather.  Warren  Smith  was  the  rider.  He  was 
waving  a  slip  of  yellow  paper  high  in  the  air/ 

He  rode  up  the  slope,  and  drew  rein  beyond  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  255 

burning  buildings,  just  ahead  of  those  foremost  in 
the  pursuit.  He  threw  his  horse  across  the  road  to 
oppose  their  progress,  rose  in  his  stirrups,  and 
waved  the  paper  over  his  head.  "Stop!"  he  roared, 
"Give  me,  one  minute.  Stop!"  He  had  a  grand 
voice;  and  he  was  known  in  many  parts  of  the  State 
for  the  great  bass  roar  with  which  he  startled  his 
juries.  To  be  heard  at  a  distance  most  men  lift  the 
pitch  of  their  voices;  Smith  lowered  his  an  octave  or 
two,  and  the  result  was  like  an  earthquake  playing: 
an  organ  in  a  catacomb. 

"Stop!"  he  thundered.     "Stop!" 

In  answer,  one  of  the  flying  Cross-Roaders  turned 
and  sent  a  bullet  whistling  close  to  him.  The  law 
yer  paused  long  enough  to  bow  deeply  in  satirical 
response;  then,  flourishing  the  paper,  he  roared 
again:  "Stop!  A  mistake!  I  have  news!  Stop,  I 
say!  Horner  has  got  them!" 

To  make  himself  heard  over  that  tempestuous 
advance  was  a  feat;  for  him,  moreover,  whose 
counsels  had  so  lately  been  derided,  to  interest  the 
pursuers  at  such  a  moment  enough  to  make  them 
listen — to  find  the  word — was  a  greater;  and  by  the 
word,  and  by  gestures  at  once  vehemently  im 
perious  and  imploring,  to  stop  them  was  still  greater;. 


but  he  did  it.  He  had  come  at  just  the  moment 
before  the  moment  that  would  have  been  too  late. 
They  all  heard  him.  They  all  knew,  too,  he  was 
not  trying  to  save  the  Cross-Roads  as  a  matter  of 
duty,  because  he  had  given  that  up  before  the  mob 
left  Plattville.  Indeed,  it  was  a  question  if,  at  the 
last,  he  had  not  tacitly  approved;  and  no  one  feared 
indictments  for  the  day's  work.  It  would  do  no 
harm  to  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say.  The  work 
could  wait;  it  would  "keep"  for  five  minutes.  They 
began  to  gather  around  him,  excited,  flushed,  per 
spiring,  and  smelling  of  smoke.  Hartley  Bowlder, 
won  by  Lige's  desperation  and  intrepidity,  was 
helping  the  latter  tie  up  his  head;  no  one  else  was 
hurt. 

'^"What  is  it?"  they  clamored  impatiently.  "Speak 
quick!"  There  was  another  harmless  shot  from 
a  fugitive,  and  then  the  Cross-Roaders,  divining 
that  the  diversion  was  in  their  favor,  secured  them 
selves  in  their  decrepit  fastnesses  and  held  their 
iire.  Meanwhile,  the  flames  crackled  cheerfully  in 
Plattville  ears.  No  matter  what  the  prosecutor  had 
to  say,  at  least  the  Skillett  saloon  and  homestead 
were  gone,  and  Bob  Skillett  and  one  other  would  be 
sick  enough  to  be  good  for  a  while. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  257 

"Listen,"  cried  Warren  Smith,  and,  rising  in  his 
stirrups  again,  read  the  missive  in  his  hand,  a  West 
ern  Union  telegraph  form.  "Warren  Smith,  Platt- 
ville,"  was  the  direction.  "Found  both  shell-men. 
Police  familiar  with  both,  and  both  wanted  here. 
One  arrested  at  noon  in  a  second-hand  clothes  store, 
wearing  Harkless's  hat,  also  trying  dispose  torn 
full-dress  coat  known  to  have  been  worn  by  Hark- 
less  last  night.  Stains  on  lining  believed  blood. 
Second  man  found  later  at  freight-yards  in  empty 
lumber  car  left  Plattville  1  P.M.,  badly  hurt,  shot, 
and  bruised.  Supposed  Harkless  made  hard  fight. 
Hurt  man  taken  to  hospital  unconscious.  Will  die. 
Hope  able  question  him  first  and  discover  where 
abouts  body.  Other  man  refuses  talk  so  far.  Check 
any  movement  Cross-Roads.  This  clears  Skillett, 
etc.  Come  over  on  9.15." 

The  telegram  was  signed  by  Homer  and  by  Bar 
rett,  the  superintendent  of  police  at  Rouen. 

"It's  all  a  mistake,  boys,"  the  lawyer  said,  as  he 
handed  the  paper  to  Watts  and  Parker  for  inspec 
tion.  "The  ladies  at  the  judge's  were  mistaken, 
that's  all,  and  this  proves  it.  It's  easy  enough  to 
understand:  they  were  frightened  by  the  storm,  and, 
watching  a  fence  a  quarter-mile  away  by  flashes  of 


258  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

lightning,  any  one  would  have  been  confused,  and 
imagined  all  the  horrors  on  earth.  I  don't  deny  but 
what  I  believed  it  for  a  while,  and  I  don't  deny  but 
the  Cross-Roads  is  pretty  tough,  but  you've  done  a 
good  deal  here  already,  to-day,  and  we're  saved  in 
time  from  a  mistake  that  would  have  turned  out 
mighty  bad.  This  settles  it.  Horner  got  a  wire 
from  Rouen  to  come  over  there,  soon  as  they  got 
track  of  the  first  man;  that  was  when  we  saw  him 
on  the  Rouen  accommodation." 

A  slightly  cracked  voice,  yet  a  huskily  tuneful 
one,  was  lifted  quaveringly  on  the  air  from  the 
roadside,  where  an  old  man  and  a  yellow  dog  sat 
in  the  dust  together,  the  latter  reprieved  at  the 
last  moment,  his  surprised  head  rakishly  garnished 
with  a  hasty  wreath  of  dog-fennel  daisies. 

"John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  ground. 
While  we  go  marching  on!" 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Cross-Roads,  saved,  they  knew  not  how; 
guilty;  knowing  nothing  of  tlie  fantastic  pendulum 
of  opinion,  which,  swung  by  the  events  of  the  day, 
had  marked  the  fatal  moment  of  guilt,  now  on  others, 
now  on  them,  who  deserved  it — these  natives  and 
refugees,  conscious  of  atrocity,  dumfounded  by  a 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  259 

miracle,  thinking  the  world  gone  mad,  hovered  to 
gether  in  a  dark,  ragged  mass  at  the  crossing  cor 
ners,  while  the  skeleton  of  the  rotting  buggy  in  the 
slough  rose  behind  them  against  the  face  of  the 
west.  They  peered  with  stupified  eyes  through  the 
smoky  twilight. 

From  afar,  faintly  through  the  gloaming,  came 
mournfully  to  their  ears  the  many-voiced  refrain — 
fainter,  fainter: 

"John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  ground, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  ground, 
John  Brown's  body  lies — mould — 
we    go    march     ....     on." 


CHAPTER  XH 

JERRY   THE  TELLER 

AT  midnight  a  small  brougham  stopped  at 
the  gates  of  the  city  hospital  in  Rouen. 
A  short  distance  ahead,  the  lamps  of  a 
cab,  drawn  up  at  the  curbing,  made  two  dull  orange 
sparks  under  the  electric  light  swinging  over  the 
street.  A  cigarette  described  a  brief  parabola  as 
it  was  tossed  from  the  brougham,  and  a  short 
young  man  jumped  out  and  entered  the  gates,  then 
paused  and  spoke  to  the  driver  of  the  cab. 

"Did  you  bring  Mr.  Barrett  here?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  driver;  "him  and  two 
other  gentlemen." 

Lighting  another  cigarette,  from  which  he  drew 
but  two  inspirations  before  he  threw  it  away,  the 
young  man  proceeded  quickly  up  the  walk.  As  he 
ascended  the  short  flight  of  steps  which  led  to  the 
mam  doors,  he  panted  a  little,  in  a  way  which  sug 
gested  that  (although  his  white  waistcoat  outlined 

an  ellipse  still  respectable)  a  crescendo  of  portliness 

260 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  261 

was  playing  diminuendo  with  his  youth.  And, 
though  his  walk  was  brisk,  it  was  not  lively.  The 
expression  of  his  very  red  face  indicated  that  his 
briskness  was  spurred  by  anxiety,  and  a  fattish 
groan  he  emitted  on  the  top  step  added  the  impres 
sion  that  his  comfortable  body  protested  against  the 
mental  spur.  In  the  hall  he  removed  his  narrow- 
brimmed  straw  hat  and  presented  a  rotund  and 
amiable  head,  from  the  top  of  which  his  auburn 
hair  seemed  to  retire  with  a  sense  of  defeat;  it  fell 
back,  however,  not  in  confusion,  but  in  perfect 
order,  and  the  sparse  pink  mist  left  upon  his  crown 
gave,  by  a  supreme  effort,  an  effect  of  arrangement, 
so  that  an  imaginative  observer  would  have  declared 
that  there  was  a  part  down  the  middle.  The  gentle 
man's  plump  face  bore  a  grave  and  troubled  ex 
pression,  and  gravity  and  trouble  were  patent  in  all 
the  lines  of  his  figure  and  in  every  gesture;  in  the 
way  he  turned  his  head;  in  the  uneasy  shifting  of 
his  hat  from  one  hand  to  the  other  and  in  his  fanning 
himself  with  it  in  a  nervous  fashion;  and  in  his 
small,  blue  eyes,  which  did  not  twinkle  behind  his 
rimless  glasses  and  looked  unused  to  not  twinkling. 
His  gravity  clothed  him  like  an  ill-fitting  coat;  or, 
possibly,  he  might  have  reminded  the  imaginative 


262  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

observer,  just  now  conjured  up,  of  a  music-box  set 
to  turning  its  cylinder  backwards. 

He  spoke  to  an  attendant,  and  was  directed  to  an 
office,  which  he  entered  without  delay.  There  were 
five  men  in  the  room,  three  of  them  engaged  in  con 
versation  near  the  door;  another,  a  young  surgeon, 
was  writing  at  a  desk;  the  fifth  drowsily  nodding 
on  a  sofa.  The  newcomer  bowed  as  he  entered. 

"Mr.  Barrett?"  he  said  inquiringly. 

One  of  the  men  near  the  door  turned  about. 
"Yes,  sir,"  he  answered,  with  a  stern  disfavor  of 
the  applicant;  a  disfavor  possibly  a  perquisite  of  his 
office.  "What's  wanted?" 

"I  think  I  have  met  you,"  returned  the  other. 
"My  name  is  Meredith." 

Mr.  Barrett  probably  did  not  locate  the  meeting, 
but  the  name  proved  an  open  sesame  to  his  genial 
ity,  for  he  melted  at  once,  and  saying:  "Of  course, 
of  course,  Mr.  Meredith;  did  you  want  a  talk  with 
me?"  clasped  the  young  man's  hand  confidentially 
in  his,  and,  with  an  appearance  of  assuring  him  that 
whatever  the  atrocity  which  had  occurred  in  the 
Meredith  household  it  should  be  discreetly  handled 
and  hushed  up,  indicated  a  disposition  to  conduct 
him  toward  a  more  appropriate  apartment  for  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  263 

rehearsal  of  scandal.  The  young  man  accepted  the 
hand-clasp  with  some  resignation,  but  rejected  the 
suggestion  of  privacy. 

"A  telegram  from  Plattville  reached  me  half  an 
hour  ago,"  he  said.  "I  should  have  had  it  sooner, 
but  I  have  been  in  the  country  all  day." 

The  two  men  who  had  been  talking  with  the 
superintendent  turned  quickly,  and  stared  at  the 
speaker.  He  went  on:  "Mr.  Harkless  was  an  old — 
and — "  He  broke  off,  with  a  sudden,  sharp  chok 
ing,  and  for  a  moment  was  unable  to  control  an 
emotion  that  seemed,  for  some  reason,  as  surprising 
and  unbefitting,  in  a  person  of  his  rubicund  presence, 
as  was  his  gravity.  An  astonished  tear  glittered 
in  the  corner  of  his  eye.  The  grief  of  the  gayer 
sorts  of  stout  people  appears,  sometimes,  to  dum- 
found  even  themselves.  The  young  man  took  off 
his  glasses  and  wiped  them  slowly.  " — An  old  and 
very  dear  friend  of  mine."  He  replaced  the  glasses 
insecurely  upon  his  nose.  "I  telephoned  to  your 
headquarters,  and  they  said  you  had  come  here." 

"Yes,  sir;  yes,  sir,"  the  superintendent  of  police 
responded,  cheerfully.  "These  two  gentlemen  are 
from  Plattville;  Mr.  Smith  just  got  in.  They  mighty 
near  had  big  trouble  down  there  to-day,  but  I  guess 


264  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

we'll  settle  things  for  'em  up  here.  Let  me  make 
you  acquainted  with  my  friend,  Mr.  Smith,  and  my 
friend,  Mr.  Horner.  Gentlemen,  my  friend,  Mr. 
Meredith,  one  of  our  well-known  citizens." 

"You  hear  it  from  the  police,  gentlemen,"  .added 
Mr.  Meredith,  perking  up  a  little.  "I  know  Dr. 
Gay."  He  nodded  to  the  surgeon. 

"I  suppose  you  have  heard  some  of  the  circum 
stances — those  that  we've  given  out,"  said  Barrett. 

"I  read  the  account  in  the  evening  paper.  I  had 
heard  of  Harkless,  of  Carlow,  before;  but  it  never 
occurred  to  me  that  it  was  my  friend — I  had  heard 
he  was  abroad — until  I  got  this  telegram  from  a 
relative  of  mine  who  happened  to  be  down  there." 

"Well,"  said  the  superintendent,  "your  friend 
made  a  mighty  good  fight  before  he  gave  up.  The 
Teller,  that's  the  man  we've  got  out  here,  he's  so 
hacked  up  and  shot  and  battered  his  mother 
wouldn't  know  him,  if  she  wanted  to;  at  least,  that's 
what  Gay,  here,  says.  We  haven't  seen  him,  be 
cause  the  doctors  have  been  at  him  ever  since  he 
was  found,  and  they  expect  to  do  some  more  to 
night  when  we've  had  our  interview  with  him,  if 
he  lives  long  enough.  One  of  my  sergeants  found 
him  in  the  freight-yards  about  four-o'clock  and  sent 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  265 

him  here  in  the  ambulance;  knew  it  was  Teller, 
because  he  was  stowed  away  in  one  of  the  empty 
cars  that  came  from  Plattville  last  night,  and 
Slattery — that's  his  running  mate,  the  one  we 
caught  with  the  coat  and  hat — gave  in  that  they 
beat  their  way  on  that  freight.  I  guess  Slattery  let 
this  one  do  most  of  the  fighting;  he  ain't  scratched; 
but  Mr.  'Harkless  certainly  made  it  hot  for  the 
Teller." 

"My  relative  believes  that  Mr.  Harkless  is  still 
alive,"  said  Meredith. 

Mr.  Barrett  permitted  himself  an  indulgent  smile. 
He  had  the  air  of  having  long  ago  discovered  every 
thing  which  anybody  might  wish  to  know,  and  of 
knowing  a  great  deal  which  he  held  in  reserve  be 
cause  it  was  necessary  to  suppress  many  facts  for  a 
purpose  far  beyond  his  auditor's  comprehension 
though  a  very  simple  matter  to  himself. 

"Well,  hardly,  I  expect,"  he  replied,  easily.  "No; 
he's  hardly  alive." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,"  said  Meredith. 

"I'm  afraid  Mr.  Barrett  has  to  say  it,"  broke  in 
Warren  Smith.  "We're  up  here  to  see  this  fellow 
before  he  dies,  to  try  and  get  him  to  tell  what 
disposal  they  made  of  the " 


266  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Ah!"  Meredith  shivered.  "I  believe  I'd  rather 
he  said  the  other  than  to  hear  you  say  that." 

Mr.  Homer  felt  the  need  of  defending  a  fellow- 
townsman,  and  came  to  the  rescue,  flushing  pain 
fully.  "It's  mighty  bad,  I  know,"  said  the  sheriff  of 
Carlow,  the  shadows  of  his  honest,  rough  face  fall 
ing  in  a  solemn  pattern;  "I  reckon  we  hate  to  say 
it  as  much  as  you  hate  to  hear  it;  and  Warren  really 
didn't  get  the  word  out.  It's  stuck  in  our  throats 
all  day;  and  I  don't  recollect  as  I  heard  a  single  man 
say  it  before  I  left  our  city  this  morning.  Our 
folks  thought  a  great  deal  of  him,  Mr.  Meredith; 
I  don't  believe  there's  any  thinks  more.  But  it's 
come  to  that  now;  you  can't  hardly  see  no  chance 
left.  We  be'n  sweating  this  other  man,  Slattery, 
but  we  can't  break  him  down.  Jest  tells  us  to  go 
to" — the  sheriff  paused,  evidently  deterred  by  the 
thought  that  swear-words  were  unbefitting  a  hos 
pital — "to  the  other  place,  and  shets  his  jaw  up 
tight.  The  one  up  here  is  called  the  Teller,  as  Mr. 
Barrett  says;  his  name's  Jerry  the  Teller.  Well, 
we  told  Slattery  that  Jerry  had  died  and  left  a  con 
fession;  tried  to  make  him  think  there  wasn't  no 
hope  fer  him,  and  he  might  as  well  up  and  tell  his 
share;  might  git  off  easier;  warned  him  to  look  out 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   267 

for  a  mob  if  he  didn't,  maybe,  and  so  on,  but  it 
never  bothered  him  at  all.  He's  nervy,  all  right. 
Told  us  to  go — that  is,  he  said  it  again — and  swore 
the  Teller  was  on  his  way  to  Chicago,  swore  he 
seen  him  git  on  the  tram.  Wouldn't  say  another 
word  tell  he  got  a  lawyer.  So,  'soon  as  it  was  any 
use,  we  come  up  here — they  reckon  he'll  come  to 
before  he  dies.  We'll  be  glad  to  have  you  go  in 
with  us,"  Horner  said  kindly.  "I  reckon  it's  all 
the  same  to  Mr.  Barrett." 

"He  will  die,  will  he,  Gay?"  Meredith  asked, 
turning  to  the  surgeon. 

"Oh,  not  necessarily,"  the  young  man  replied, 
yawning  slightly  behind  his  hand,  and  too  long 
accustomed  to  straightforward  questions  to  be 
shocked  at  an  evident  wish  for  a  direct  reply.  "His 
chances  are  better,  because  they'll  hang  him  if  he 
gets  well.  They  took  the  ball  and  a  good  deal  of 
shot  out  of  his  side,  and  there's  a  lot  more  for  after- 
while,  if  he  lasts.  He's  been  off  the  table  an  hour, 
and  he's  still  going." 

"That's  in  his  favor,  isn't  it?"  said  Meredith. 
"And  extraordinary,  too?"  If  young  Dr.  Gay  per 
ceived  a  slur  in  these  interrogations  he  betrayed 
no  exterior  appreciation  of  it. 


268  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Shot!"  exclaimed  Homer.  "Shot!  I  knowed 
there'd  be'n  a  pistol  used,  though  where  they  got 
it  beats  me — we  stripped  'em — and  it  wasn't  Mr. 
Harkless's;  he  never  carried  one.  But  a  shot-gun!" 

An  attendant  entered  and  spoke  to  the  surgeon, 
and  Gay  rose  wearily,  touched  the  drowsy  young 
man  on  the  shoulder,  and  led  the  way  to  the  door. 
"You  can  come  now,"  he  said  to  the  others;  "though 
I  doubt  its  being  any  good  to  you.  He's  delirious." 

They  went  down  a  long  hall  and  up  a  narrow 
corridor,  then  stepped  softly  into  a  small,  quiet  ward. 

There  was  a  pungent  smell  of  chemicals  in  the 
room;  the  light  was  low,  and  the  dimness  was  im 
bued  with  a  thick,  confused  murmur,  incoherent 
whisperings  that  came  from  a  cot  in  the  corner.  It 
was  the  only  cot  in  use  in  the  ward,  and  Meredith 
was  conscious  of  a  terror  that  made  him  dread  to 
look  at  it,  to  go  near  it.  Beside  it  a  nurse  sat  silent, 
and  upon  it  feebly  tossed  the  racked  body  of  him 
whom  Barrett  had  called  Jerry  the  Teller. 

The  head  was  a  shapeless  bundle,  so  swathed  it 
was  with  bandages  and  cloths,  and  what  part  of 
the  face  was  visible  was  discolored  and  pigmented 
with  drugs.  Stretched  under  the  white  sheet  the 
man  looked  immensely  tall — as  Horner  saw  with 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  269 

vague  misgiving — and  he  lay  in  an  odd,  inhuman 
fashion,  as  though  he  had  been  all  broken  to  pieces. 
His  attempts  to  move  were  constantly  soothed  by 
the  nurse,  and  he  as  constantly  renewed  such 
attempts;  and  one  hand,  though  torn  and  bandaged, 
was  not  to  be  restrained  from  a  wandering,  restless 
movement  which  Meredith  felt  to  be  pathetic.  He 
had  entered  the  room  with  a  flare  of  hate  for  the 
thug  whom  he  had  come  to  see  die,  and  who  had 
struck  down  the  old  friend  whose  nearness  he  had 
never  known  until  it  was  too  late.  But  at  first 
sight  of  the  broken  figure  he  felt  all  animosity  fall 
away  from  him;  only  awe  remained,  and  a  growing, 
traitorous  pity  as  he  watched  the  long,  white  fingers 
of  the  Teller  "pick  at  the  coverlet."  The  man  was 
muttering  rapid  fragments  of  words,  and  syllables. 

"Somehow  I  feel  a  sense  of  wrong,"  Meredith 
whispered  to  Gay.  "I  feel  as  if  I  had  done  the 
fellow  to  death  myself,  as  if  it  were  all  out  of  gear. 
I  know,  now,  how  Henry  felt  over  the  great  Guisard. 
My  God,  how  tall  he  looks!  That  doesn't  seem  to 
me  like  a  thug's  hand." 

The  surgeon  nodded.  "Of  course,  if  there's  a 
mistake  to  be  made,  you  can  count  on  Barrett  and 
his  sergeants  to  make  it.  I  doubt  if  this  is  their 


270  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

man.  When  they  found  him  what  clothes  he  wore 
were  torn  and  stained;  but  they  had  been  good 
once,  especially  the  linen." 

Barrett  bent  over  the  recumbent  figure.  "See 
here,  Jerry,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  little. 
Rouse  up,  will  you?  I  want  to  talk  to  you  as  a 
friend." 

The  incoherent  muttering  continued. 

"See  here,  Jerry!"  repeated  Barrett,  more  sharply. 
"Jerry!  rouse  up,  will  you?  We  don't  want  any 
fooling;  understand  that,  Jerry!"  He  dropped  his 
hand  on  the  man's  shoulder  and  shook  him  slightly. 
The  Teller  uttered  a  short,  gasping  cry. 

"Let  me,"  said  Gay,  and  swiftly  interposed. 
Bending  over  the  cot,  he  said  in  a  pleasant,  soft 
voice:  "It's  all  right,  old  man;  it's  all  right.  Slat- 
tery  wants  to  know  what  you  did  with  that  man 
down  at  Plattville,  when  you  got  through  with  him. 
He  can't  remember,  and  he  thinks  there  was  money 
left  on  him.  Slattery's  head  was  hurt — he  can't 
remember.  He'll  go  shares  with  you,  when  he  gets 
it.  Slattery's  going  to  stand  by  you,  if  he  can  get 
the  money." 

The  Teller  only  tried  to  move  his  free  hand  to 
the  shoulder  Barrett  had  shaken. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  271 

"Slattery  wants  to  know,"  repeated  the  surgeon, 
gently  moving  the  hand  back  upon  the  sheet. 
"He'll  divvy  up,  when  he  gets  it.  He'll  stand  by 
you,  old  man." 

"Would  you  please  not  mind,"  whispered  the 
Teller  faintly,  "would  you  please  not  mind  if  you 
took  care  not  to  brush  against  my  shoulder  again?" 

The  surgeon  drew  back  with  an  exclamation; 
but  the  Teller's  whisper  gathered  strength,  and 
they  heard  him  murmuring  oddly  to  himself.  Mere 
dith  moved  forward. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked,  with  a  startled  gesture. 

"Seems  to  be  trying  to  sing,  or  something,"  said 
Barrett,  bending  over  to  listen.  The  Teller  swung 
his  arm  heavily  over  the  side  of  the  cot,  the  fingers 
never  ceasing  their  painful  twitching,  and  Gay 
leaned  down  and  gently  moved  the  cloths  so  that 
the  white,  scarred  lips  were  free.  They  moved 
steadily;  they  seemed  to  be  framing  the  semblance 
of  an  old  ballad  that  Meredith  knew;  the  whisper 
grew  more  distinct,  and  it  became  a  rich  but  broken 
voice,  and  they  heard  it  singing,  like  the  sound  of 
some  far,  halting  minstrelsy: 

"Wave    willows — murmur   waters — golden   sunbeams   smile, 
Earthly   music — cannot  waken — lovely — Annie  Lisle." 


272  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"My  God!"  cried  Tom  Meredith. 

The  bandaged  hand  waved  jauntily  over  the 
Teller's  head.  "Ah,  men,"  he  said,  almost  clearly, 
and  tried  to  lift  himself  on  his  arm,  "I  tell  you  it's 
a  grand  eleven  we  have  this  year!  There  will  be 
little  left  of  anything  that  stands  against  them.  Did 
you  see  Jim  Romley  ride  over  his  man  this  after 
noon?" 

As  the  voice  grew  clearer  the  sheriff  stepped  for 
ward,  but  Tom  Meredith,  with  a  loud  exclamation 
of  grief,  threw  himself  on  his  knees  beside  the  cot 
and  seized  the  wandering  fingers  in  his  own.  "John !" 
he  cried.  "John!  Is  it  you?" 

The  voice  went  on  rapidly,  not  heeding  him: 
"Ah,  you  needn't  howl;  I'd  have  been  as  much  use 
at  right  as  that  Sophomore.  Well,  laugh  away,  you 
Indians!  If  it  hadn't  been  for  this  ankle — but  it 
seems  to  be  my  chest  that's  hurt — and  side — not 
that  it  matters,  you  know;  the  Sophomore's  just  as 
good,  or  better.  It's  only  my  egotism.  Yes,  it 
must  be  the  side — and  chest — and  head — all  over, 
I  believe.  Not  that  it  matters — I'll  try  again  next 
year — next  year  I'll  make  it  a  daily,  Helen  said, 
not  that  I  should  call  you  Helen — I  mean  Miss — Miss 
— Fisbee — no,  Sherwood — but  I've  always  thought 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  273 

Helen  was  the  prettiest  name  in  the  world — you'll 
forgive  me? — And  please  tell  Parker  there's  no 
more  copy,  and  won't  be — I  wouldn't  grind  out 
another  stick  to  save  his  immortal — yes,  yes,  a  daily 
— she  said — ah,  I  never  made  a  good  trade — no — 
they  can't  come  seven  miles — but  I'll  finish  you, 
Skillett,  first;  I  know  you!  I  know  nearly  all  of 
you!  Now  let's  sing  'Annie  Lisle.' '  He  lifted  his 
hand  as  if  to  beat  the  time  for  a  chorus. 

"Oh,  John,  John!"  cried  Tom  Meredith, 
and  sobbed  outright.  "My  boy — my  boy — old 

friend "      The   cry   of   the   classmate   was   like 

that  of  a  mother,  for  it  was  his  old  idol  and  hero 
who  lay  helpless  and  broken  before  him. 

The  brougham  lamps  and  the  apathetic  sparks  of 
the  cab  gleamed  in  front  of  the  hospital  till  day 
light.  Two  other  pairs  of  lamps  joined  them  in 
the  earliest  of  the  small  hours,  these  subjoined  to 
two  deep-hooded  phaetons,  from  each  of  which 
quickly  descended  a  gentleman  with  a  beard,  an 
air  of  eminence,  and  a  small,  ominous  black  box. 
The  air  of  eminence  was  justified  by  the  haste  with 
which  Meredith  had  sent  for  them,  and  by  their 
wide  repute.  They  arrived  almost  simultaneously, 


274  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  hastily  shook  hands  as  they  made  their  way 
to  the  ward  down  the  long  hall  and  up  the  narrow 
corridor.  They  had  a  short  conversation  with  Gay 
and  a  word  with  the  nurse,  then  turned  the  others 
out  of  the  room  by  a  practiced  innuendo  of  manner. 
They  stayed  a  long  time  in  the  room  without  open 
ing  the  door.  Meredith  paced  the  hall  alone,  some 
times  stopping  to  speak  to  Warren  Smith;  but  the 
two  officials  of  peace  sat  together  in  dumb  consterna 
tion  and  astonishment.  The  sleepy  young  man 
relaxed  himself  resignedly  upon  a  bench  in  the  hall 
and  returned  to  the  dormance  from  which  he  had 
been  roused.  The  big  hospital  was  very  still.  Now 
and  then  a  nurse  went  through  the  hall,  carrying 
something,  and  sometimes  a  neat  young  physician 
passed  cheerfully  along,  looking  as  if  he  had  many 
patients  who  were  well  enough  to  testify  to  his 
skill,  but  sick  enough  to  pay  for  it.  Outside,  through 
the  open  front  doors,  the  crickets  chirped. 

Meredith  went  out  on  the  steps,  and  breathed  the 
cool  night  air.  A  slender  taint  of  drugs  hung  every 
where  about  the  building,  and  the  almost  imper 
ceptible  permeation  sickened  him;  it  was  deadly, 
he  thought,  and  imbued  with  a  hideous  portent 
of  suffering.  That  John  Harkless,  of  all  men,  should 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   275 

lie  stifled  with  ether,  and  bandaged  and  splintered, 
and  smeared  with  horrible  unguents,  while  they 
stabbed  and  slashed  and  tortured  him,  and  made 
an  outrage  and  a  sin  of  that  grand,  big,  dexterous 
body  of  his!  Meredith  shuddered.  The  lights  in 
the  little  ward  were  turned  up,  and  they  seemed 
to  shine  from  a  chamber  of  horrors,  while  he  waited, 
as  a  brother  might  have  waited  outside  the  In 
quisition — if,  indeed,  a  brother  would  have  been 
allowed  to  wait  outside  the  Inquisition. 

Alas,  he  had  found  John  Harkless!  He  had 
"lost  track"  of  him  as  men  sometimes  do  lose 
track  of  their  best  beloved,  but  it  had  always  been 
a  comfort  to  know  that  Harkless  was — somewhere, 
a  comfort  without  which  he  could  hardly  have  got 
along.  Like  others  he  had  been  waiting  for  John 
to  turn  up — on  top,  of  course;  for  people  would 
always  believe  in  him  so,  that  he  would  be  shoved 
ahead,  no  matter  how  much  he  hung  back  himself — 
but  Meredith  had  not  expected  him  to  turn  up  in 
Indiana.  He  had  heard  vaguely  that  Harkless  was 
abroad,  and  he  had  a  general  expectation  that 
people  would  hear  of  him  over  there  some  day, 
with  papers  like  the  "Times"  beseeching  him  to 
go  on  missions.  And  he  found  him  here,  in  his 


276  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

own  home,  a  stranger,  alone  and  dying,  receiving 
what  ministrations  were  reserved  for  Jerry  the 
Teller.  But  it  was  Helen  Sherwood  who  had  found 
him.  He  wondered  how  much  those  two  had  seen 
of  each  other,  down  there  in  Plattville.  If  they 
had  liked  each  other,  and  Harkless  could  have 
lived,  he  thought  it  might  have  simplified  some 
things  for  Helen.  "Poor  Helen!"  he  exclaimed 
aloud.  Her  telegram  had  a  ring,  even  in  the  barren 
four  sentences.  He  wondered  how  much  they  had 
liked  each  other.  Perhaps  she  would  wish  to  come 
at  once.  When  those  fellows  came  out  of  the  room 
he  would  send  her  a  word  by  telegraph. 

When  they  came  out — ah!  he  did  not  want  them 
to  come  out;  he  was  afraid.  They  were  an  eternity 
— why  didn't  they  come?  No;  he  hoped  they  would 
not  come,  just  now.  In  a  little  time,  in  a  few  min 
utes,  even,  he  would  not  dread  a  few  words  so 
much;  but  n&w  he  couldn't  quite  bear  to  be  told 
he  had  found  his  friend  only  to  lose  him,  the  man 
he  had  always  most  needed,  wanted,  loved.  Every 
body  had  always  cared  for  Harkless,  wherever  he 
went.  That  he  had  always  cared  for  everybody 
was  part  of  the  reason,  maybe.  Meredith  remem 
bered,  now,  hearing  a  man  who  had  spent  a  day 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  277 

in  Plattville  on  business  speak  of  him:  "They've 
got  a  young  fellow  down  there  who'll  be  Governor 
in  a  few  years.  He's  a  sort  of  dictator;  and  runs 
the  party  all  over  that  part  of  the  State  to  suit 
his  own  sweet  will,  just  by  sheer  personality.  And 
there  isn't  a  man  in  that  district  who  wouldn't 
cheerfully  lie  down  in  the  mud  to  let  him  pass 
over  dry.  It's  that  young  Harkless,  you  know; 
owns  the  'Herald,'  the  paper  that  downed  McCune 
and  smashed  those  imitation  'White-Caps'  in  Carlow 
County."  Meredith  had  been  momentarily  struck 
by  the  coincidence  of  the  name,  but  his  notion  of 
Harkless  was  so  inseparably  connected  with  what 
was  (to  his  mind)  a  handsome  and  more  spacious 
— certainly  more  illuminated — field  of  action,  that 
the  idea  that  this  might  be  his  friend  never  entered 
his  head.  Helen  had  said  something  once — he 
could  not  remember  what — that  made  him  think 
she  had  half  suspected  it,  and  he  had  laughed.  He 
thought  of  the  whimsical  fate  that  had  taken  her 
to  Plattville,  of  the  reason  for  her  going,  and  the 
old  thought  came  to  him  that  the  world  is,  after  all, 
so  very  small.  He  looked  up  at  the  twinkling  stars; 
they  were  reassuring  and  kind.  Under  their  be- 
nignancy  no  loss  could  befall,  no  fate  miscarry — 


278  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

for  in  his  last  thought  he  felt  his  vision  opened,  for 
the  moment,  to  perceive  a  fine  tracery  of  fate. 

"Ah,  that  would  be  too  beautiful!"  he  said. 

And  then  he  shivered;  for  his  name  was  spoken 
from  within. 

It  was  soon  plain  to  him  that  he  need  not  have 
feared  a  few  words,  for  he  did  not  in  the  least  under 
stand  those  with  which  the  eminent  surgeons  fa 
vored  him;  and  they  at  once  took  their  depart 
ure.  He  did  understand,  however,  what  Horner 
told  him.  Mr.  Barrett,  Warren  Smith,  and  the 
sleepy  young  man  had  reentered  the  ward;  and 
Horner  was  following,  but  waited  for  Meredith. 
Somehow,  the  look  of  the  sheriff's  Sunday  coat, 
wrinkling  forlornly  from  his  broad,  bent  shoulders, 
was  both  touching  and  solemn.  He  said  simply: 
"He's  conscious  and  not  out  of  his  head.  They're 
gone  in  to  take  his  ante-mortem  statement,"  and 
they  went  into  the  room. 

Harkless's  eyes  were  bandaged.  The  lawyer  was 
speaking  to  him,  and  as  Horner  went  awkwardly 
toward  the  cot,  Warren  said  something  indicative  of 
the  sheriff's  presence,  and  the  hand  on  the  sheet 
made  a  formless  motion  which  Horner  understood, 
for  he  took  the  pale  fingers  in  his  own,  very  gently, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  279 

and  then  set  them  back.  Smith  turned  toward 
Meredith,  but  the  latter  made  a  gesture  which 
forbade  the  attorney  to  speak  of  him,  and  went  to  a 
corner  and  sat  down  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

The  sleepy  young  man  opened  a  notebook  and 
shook  a  stylographic  pen  so  that  the  ink  might  flow 
freely.  The  lawyer,  briefly  and  with  unlegal  agita 
tion,  administered  an  oath,  to  which  Harkless 
responded  feebly,  and  then  there  was  silence. 

"Now,  Mr.  Harkless,  if  you  please,"  said  Bar 
rett,  insinuatingly;  "if  you  feel  like  telling  us  as 
much  as  you  can  about  it?" 

He  answered  in  a  low,  rather  indistinct  voice,  very 
deliberately,  pausing  before  almost  every  word.  It 
was  easy  work  for  the  sleepy  stenographer. 

"I  understand.  I  don't  want  to  go  off  my  head 
again  before  I  finish.  Of  course  I  know  why  you 
want  this.  If  it  were  only  for  myself  I  should  tell 
you  nothing,  because,  if  I  am  to  leave,  I  should  like 
it  better  if  no  one  were  punished.  But  that's  a  bad 
community  over  there;  they  are  everlastingly  worry 
ing  our  people;  they  have  always  been  a  bother  to 
us,  and  it's  time  it  was  stopped  for  good.  I  don't 
believe  very  much  in  punishment,  but  you  can't  do 
a  great  deal  of  reforming  with  the  Cross-Roaders 


280  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

unless  you  catch  them  young — very  young,  before 
they're  weaned — they  wean  them  on  whiskey,  I 
think.  I  realize  you  needn't  have  sworn  me  for  me 
to  tell  you  this." 

Horner  and  Smith  had  started  at  the  mention  of 
the  Cross-Roads,  but  they  subdued  their  ejacula 
tions,  while  Mr.  Barrett  looked  as  if  he  had  known 
it,  of  course.  The  room  was  still,  save  for  the  dim 
voice  and  the  soft  transcribings  of  the  stylographic 
pen. 

"I  left  Judge  Briscoe's,  and  went  west  on  the  pike 
to  a  big  tree.  It  rained,  and  I  stepped  under  the 
tree  for  shelter.  There  was  a  man  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fence.  It  was  Bob  Skillett.  He  was  carry 
ing  his  gown  and  hood — I  suppose  it  was  that — on 
his  arm.  Then  I  saw  two  others  a  little  farther  east, 
in  the  middle  of  the  road;  and  I  think  they  had  fol 
lowed  me  from  the  Briscoes',  or  near  there.  They 
had  their  foolish  regalia  on,  as  all  the  rest  had, — 
there  was  plenty  of  lightning  to  see.  The  two  in 
the  road  were  simply  standing  there  in  the  rain, 
looking  at  me  through  the  eye-holes  in  their  hoods. 
I  knew  there  were  others — plenty — but  I  thought 
they  were  coming  from  behind  me — the  west. 

"I   wanted   to   get   home — the  court-house  yard 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  281 

was  good  enough  for  me — so  I  started  east,  toward 
town.  I  passed  the  two  gentlemen;  and  one  fell 
down  as  I  went  by  him,  but  the  other  fired  a  shot  as 
a  signal,  and  I  got  his  hood  off  his  face  for  it — I 
stopped  long  enough — and  it  was  Force  Johnson.  I 
know  him  well.  Then  I  ran,  and  they  followed.  A 
little  ahead  of  me  I  saw  six  or  eight  of  them  spread 
across  the  road.  I  knew  I'd  have  a  time  getting 
through,  so  I  jumped  the  fence  to  cut  across  the 
fields,  and  I  lit  in  a  swarm  of  them — it  had  rained 
them  just  where  I  jumped.  I  set  my  back  to  the 
fence,  but  one  of  the  fellows  in  the  road  leaned  over 
and  smashed  my  head  in,  rather — with  the  butt  of 
a  gun,  I  believe.  I  came  out  from  the  fence  and  they 
made  a  little  circle  around  me.  No  one  said  any 
thing.  I  saw  they  had  ropes  and  saplings,  and  I 
didn't  want  that,  exactly,  so  I  went  into  them.  I 
got  a  good  many  hoods  off  before  it  was  over,  and 
I  can  swear  to  quite  a  number  besides  those  I  told 
you." 

He  named  the  men,  slowly  and  carefully.  Then 
he  went  on:  "I  think  they  gave  up  the  notion  of 
whipping.  We  all  got  into  a  bunch,  and  they 
couldn't  clear  to  shoot  without  hitting  some  of 
their  own:  and  there  was  a  lot  of  gouging  and  kick- 


282  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

ing — one  fellow  nearly  got  my  left  eye,  and  I  tried  to 
tear  him  apart  and  he  screamed  so  that  I  think  he 
was  hurt.  Once  or  twice  I  thought  I  might  get 
away,  but  somebody  hammered  me  over  the  head 
and  face  again,  and  I  got  dizzy;  and  then  they  all 
jumped  away  from  me  suddenly,  and  Bob  Skillett 
stepped  up — and — shot  me.  He  waited  for  a  good 
flurry  of  lightning,  and  I  was  slow  tumbling  down. 
Some  one  else  fired  a  shot-gun,  I  think — I  can't  be 
sure — about  the  same  time,  from  the  side.  I  tried 
to  get  up,  but  I  couldn't,  and  then  they  got  together, 
for  a  consultation.  The  man  I  had  hurt — I  didn't 
recognize  him — came  and  looked  at  me.  He  was 
nursing  himself  all  over;  and  groaned;  and  I  laughed, 
I — at  any  rate,  my  arm  was  lying  stretched  out  on 
the  grass,  and  he  stamped  his  heel  into  my  hand, 
and  after  a  little  of  that  I  quit  feeling. 

"I'm  not  quite  clear  about  what  happened  after 
wards.  They  went  away,  not  far,  I  think.  There's 
an  old  shed,  a  cattle-shelter,  near  there,  and  I  think 
the  storm  drove  them  under  it  to  wait  for  a  slack. 
It  seemed  a  long  time.  Sometimes  I  was  conscious, 
sometimes  I  wasn't.  I  thought  I  might  be  drowned, 
but  I  suppose  the  rain  was  good  for  me.  Then  I 
remember  being  in  motion,  being  dragged  and  car- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  283 

ried  a  long  way.  They  took  me  up  a  steep,  short 
slope,  and  set  me  down  near  the  top.  I  knew  that 
was  the  railroad  embankment,  and  I  thought  they 
meant  to  lay  me  across  the  track,  but  it  didn't  occur 
to  them,  I  suppose — they  are  not  familiar  with  melo 
drama — and  a  long  time  after  that  I  felt  and  heard 
a  great  banging  and  rattling  under  me  and  all  about 
me,  and  it  came  to  me  that  they  had  disposed  of  me 
by  hoisting  me  into  an  empty  freight-car.  The  odd 
part  of  it  was  that  the  car  wasn't  empty,  for  there 
were  two  men  already  in  it,  and  I  knew  them  by 
what  they  said  to  me. 

"They  were  the  two  shell-men  who  cheated 
Hartley  Bowlder,  and  they  weren't  vindictive;  they 
even  seemed  to  be  trying  to  help  me  a  little,  though 
perhaps  they  were  only  stealing  my  clothes,  and 
maybe  they  thought  for  them  to  do  anything  un 
pleasant  would  be  superfluous;  I  could  see  that  they 
thought  I  was  done  for,  and  that  they  had  been  hid 
ing  in  the  car  when  I  was  put  there.  I  asked  them 
to  try  to  call  the  train  men  for  me,  but  they  wouldn't 
listen,  or  else  I  couldn't  make  myself  understood. 
That's  all.  The  rest  is  a  blur.  I  haven't  known 
anything  more  until  those  surgeons  were  here. 
Please  tell  me  how  long  ago  it  happened.  I  shall 


284  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

not  die,  I  think;  there  are  a  good  many  things  I  want 
to  know  about."  He  moved  restlessly  and  the  nurse 
soothed  him. 

Meredith  rose  and  left  the  room  with  a  noiseless 
step.  He  went  out  to  the  stars  again,  and  looked  to 
them  to  check  the  storm  of  rage  and  sorrow  that 
buffeted  his  bosom.  He  understood  lynching,  now 
the  thing  was  home  to  him,  and  his  feeling  was  no 
inspiration  of  a  fear  lest  the  law  miscarry;  it  was  the 
itch  to  get  his  own  hand  on  the  rope.  Homer  came 
out  presently,  and  whispered  a  long,  broad,  pro 
found  curse  upon  the  men  of  the  Cross-Roads,  and 
Meredith's  gratitude  to  him  was  keen.  Barrett  went 
away,  soon  after,  leaving  the  cab  for  the  gentlemen 
from  Plattville.  Meredith  had  a  strange,  unreason 
able  desire  to  kick  Barrett,  possibly  for  his  ser 
geant's  sake.  Warren  Smith  sat  in  the  ward  with 
the  nurse  and  Gay,  and  the  room  was  very  quiet.  It 
was  a  long  vigil. 

They  were  only  waiting. 

At  five  o'clock  he  was  still  alive — just  that,  Smith 
came  out  to  say.  Meredith  sent  his  driver  with  a 
telegram  to  Helen  which  would  give  Plattville  the 
news  that  Harkless  was  found  and  was  not  yet  gone 
from  them.  Homer  took  the  cab  and  left  for  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   285 

station;  there  was  a  train,  and  there  were  things  for 
him  to  do  in  Carlow.  At  noon  Meredith  sent  a 
second  telegram  to  Helen,  as  barren  of  detail  as  the 
first:  he  was  alive — was  a  little  improved.  This  tele 
gram  did  not  reach  her,  for  she  was  on  the  way  to 
Rouen,  and  half  of  the  population  of  Carlow — at 
least,  so  it  appeared  to  the  unhappy  conductor  of  the 
accommodation — was  with  her. 

They  seemed  to  feel  that  they  could  camp  in  the 
hospital  halls  and  corridors,  and  they  were  an  incal 
culable  worry  to  the  authorities.  More  came  on 
every  train,  and  nearly  all  brought  flowers,  and  jelly, 
and  chickens  for  preparing  broth,  and  they  insisted 
that  the  two  latter  delicacies  be  fed  to  the  patient  at 
once.  Meredith  was  possessed  by  an  unaccount 
able  responsibility  for  them  all,  and  invited  a  great 
many  to  stay  at  his  own  house.  They  were  stiE  in 
ignorance  of  the  truth  about  the  Cross-Roads,  and 
some  of  them  spent  the  day  (it  was  Sunday)  in  plan 
ning  an  assault  upon  the  Rouen  jail  for  the  purpose 
of  lynching  Slattery  in  case  Harkless's  condition  did 
not  improve  at  once.  Those  who  had  heard  his 
statement  kept  close  mouths  until  the  story  ap 
peared  in  full  in  the  Rouen  papers  on  Monday 
morning;  but  by  that  time  every  member  of  the 


286  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Cross-Roads  White-Caps  was  lodged  in  the  Rouen 
jail  with  Slattery.  Horner  and  a  heavily  armed 
posse  rode  over  to  the  muddy  corners  on  Sunday 
night,  and  the  sheriff  discovered  that  he  might  have 
taken  the  Skilletts  and  Johnsons  single-handed  and 
unarmed.  Their  nerve  was  gone;  they  were  shaken 
and  afraid;  and,  to  employ  a  figure  somewhat  in 
appropriate  to  their  sullen,  glad  surrender,  they  fell 
upon  his  neck  in  their  relief  at  finding  the  law  touch 
ing  them.  They  had  no  wish  to  hear  "John  Brown's 
Body"  again.  They  wanted  to  get  inside  of  a 
strong  jail,  and  to  throw  themselves  on  the  mercy 
of  the  court  as  soon  as  possible.  And  those  whom 
Harkless  had  not  recognized  delayed  not  to  give 
themselves  up;  they  did  not  desire  to  remain  in 
Six-Cross-Roads.  Bob  Skillett,  Force  Johnson,  and 
one  or  two  others  needed  the  care  of  a  physician 
badly,  and  one  man  was  suffering  from  a  severely 
wrenched  back.  Horner  had  a  train  stopped  at  a 
crossing,  so  that  his  prisoners  need  not  be  taken 
through  Plattville,  and  he  brought  them  all  safely  to 
Rouen.  Had  there  chanced  any  one  to  ride  through 
the  deserted  Cross-Roads  the  next  morning,  pass 
ing  the  trampled  fields  and  the  charred  ruins  of  the 
two  shanties  to  the  east,  and  listening  to  the  lamen- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  287 

tations  of  the  women  and  children,  he  would  have 
declared  that  at  last  the  old  score  had  been  paid,  and 
that  Six-Cross-Roads  was  wiped  out. 

The  Carlow  folks  were  deeply  impressed  with  the 
two  eminent  surgeons,  of  whom  some  of  them  had 
heard,  and  on  Tuesday,  the  bulletins  marking  con 
siderable  encouragement,  most  of  them  decided  to 
temporarily  risk  the  editor  of  the  "Herald"  to  such 
capable  hands,  and  they  returned  quietly  to  their 
homes;  only  a  few  were  delayed  in  reaching  Carlow 
by  travelling  to  the  first  station  in  the  opposite  di 
rection  before  they  succeeded  in  planting  themselves 
on  the  proper  train. 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  their  solicitude  tossed 
and  burned  on  his  bed  of  pain.  He  was  delirious 
most  of  the  time,  and,  in  the  intervals  of  half-con 
sciousness,  found  that  his  desire  to  live,  very  strong 
at  first,  had  disappeared;  he  did  nor  care  much  about 
anything  except  rest — he  wanted  peace.  In  his 
wanderings  he  was  almost  always  back  in  his  college 
days,  beholding  them  in  an  unhappy,  distorted 
fashion.  He  would  lie  asprawl  on  the  sward  with 
the  others,  listening  to  the  Seniors  singing  on  the 
steps,  and,  all  at  once,  the  old,  kindly  faces  would 
expand  enormously  and  press  over  him  with  hid- 


288  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

ecus  mouthings,  and  an  ugly  Senior  in  cap  and  gown 
would  stamp  him  and  grind  a  spiked  heel  into 
his  hand ;  then  they  would  toss  him  high  into  air  that 
was  all  flames,  and  he  would  fall  and  fall  through  the 
raging  heat,  seeing  the  cool  earth  far  beneath  him, 
but  never  able  to  get  down  to  it  again.  And  then 
he  was  driven  miles  and  miles  by  dusky  figures, 
through  a  rain  of  boiling  water;  and  at  other  times 
the  whole  universe  was  a  vast,  hot  brass  bell,  and  it 
gave  off  a  huge,  continuous  roar  and  hum,  while  he 
was  a  mere  point  of  consciousness  floating  in  the 
exact  centre  of  the  heat  and  sound  waves,  and  he 
listened,  listened  for  years,  to  the  awful,  brazen  hum 
from  which  there  could  be  no  escape;  at  the  same 
time  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  only  a  Freshman 
on  the  slippery  roof  of  the  tower,  trying  to  steal  the 
clapper  of  the  chapel  bell. 

Finally  he  came  to  what  he  would  have  considered 
a  lucid  interval,  had  it  not  appeared  that  Helen  Sher 
wood  was  whispering  to  Tom  Meredith  at  the  foot 
of  his  bed.  This  he  knew  to  be  a  fictitious  presenta 
tion  of  his  fever,  for  was  she  not  by  this  time  away 
and  away  for  foreign  lands?  And,  also,  Tom  Mere 
dith  was  a  slim  young  thing,  and  not  the  middle- 
aged  youth  with  an  undeniable  stomach  and  a  bald- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   289 

ish  head,  who,  by  the  grotesque  necromancy  of  his 
hallucinations,  assumed  a  preposterous  likeness  to 
his  old  friend.  He  waved  his  hand  to  the  figures 
and  they  vanished  like  figments  of  a  dream;  but  all 
the  same  the  vision  had  been  realistic  enough  for 
the  lady  to  look  exquisitely  pretty.  No  one  could 
help  wishing  to  stay  in  a  world  which  contained  as 
charming  a  picture  as  that. 

And  then,  too  quickly,  the  moment  of  clearness 
passed;  and  he  was  troubled  about  the  "Herald," 
beseeching  those  near  him  to  put  copies  of  the  paper 
in  his  hands,  threatening  angrily  to  believe  they 
were  deceiving  him,  that  his  paper  had  suspended,  if 
the  three  issues  of  the  week  were  not  instantly  pro 
duced.  What  did  they  mean  by  keeping  the  truth 
from  him?  He  knew  the  "Herald"  had  not  come 
out.  Who  was  there  to  get  it  out  in  his  absence? 
He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  struggled  to  be 
up;  and  they  had  hard  work  to  quiet  him. 

But  the  next  night  Meredith  waited  near  his  bed 
side,  haggard  and  dishevelled.  Harkless  had  been 
lying  in  a  long  stupor;  suddenly  he  spoke,  quite 
loudly,  and  the  young  surgeon,  Gay,  who  leaned 
over  him,  remembered  the  words  and  the  tone  all 
his  life. 


"Away  and  away — across  the  waters,"  said  John 
Harkless.  "She  was  here — once — in  June." 

"What  is  it,  John?"  whispered  Meredith,  huskily. 
"You're  easier,  aren't  you?" 

And  John  smiled  a  little,  as  if,  for  an  instant,  his 
swathed  eyes  penetrated  the  bandages,  and  saw  and 
knew  his  old  friend  again. 

That  same  night  a  friend  of  Rodney  McCune's 
sent  a  telegram  from  Rouen:  "He  is  dying.  His 
paper  is  dead.  Your  name  goes  before  convention 
in  September." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JAMES   FISBEE 

ON  Monday  morning  three  men  sat  in 
council  in  the  "Herald"  office;  that  is, 
if  staring  out  of  dingy  windows  in  a  de 
mented  silence  may  be  called  sitting  in  council; 
that  was  what  Mr.  Fisbee  and  Parker  and  Ross 
Schofield  were  doing.  By  almost  desperate  exer 
tions,  these  three  and  Bud  Tipworthy  had  managed 
to  place  before  the  public  the  issues  of  the  paper 
for  the  previous  week,  unaided  by  their  chief,  or, 
rather,  aided  by  long  accounts  of  his  condition 
and  the  manner  of  his  mishap;  and,  in  truth,  three 
copies  were  at  that  moment  in  the  possession  of 
Dr.  Gay,  accompanied  by  a  note  from  Parker 
warning  the  surgeon  to  exhibit  them  to  his  patient 
only  as  a  last  resort,  as  the  foreman  feared  the 
perusal  of  them  might  cause  a  relapse. 

By  indiscriminate  turns,  acting  as  editors,  re 
porters,  and  typesetters — and  particularly  space- 
writers — the  three  men  had  worried  out  three  issues, 

291 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  part  of  the  fourth  (to  appear  the  next  morning) 
was  set  up;  but  they  had  come  to  the  end  of  their 
string,  and  there  were  various  horrid  gaps  yet  to  fill 
hi  spite  of  a  too  generous  spreading  of  advertise 
ments.  Bud  Tipworthy  had  been  sent  out  to  be 
siege  Miss  Tibbs,  all  of  whose  recent  buds  of  rhyme 
had  been  hot-housed  into  inky  blossom  during  the 
week,  and  after  a  long  absence  the  youth  returned 
with  a  somewhat  abrupt  quatrain,  entitled  "The 
Parisians  of  Old,"  which  she  had  produced  while 
he  waited — only  four  lines,  according  to  the  measure 
they  meted,  which  was  not  regardful  of  art — less 
than  a  drop  in  the  bucket,  or,  to  preserve  the  figure, 
a  single  posy  where  they  needed  a  bouquet.  Bud 
went  down  the  rickety  outside  stairs,  and  sat  on  the 
lowest  step,  whistling  "Wait  till  the  Clouds  Roll  by, 
Jenny";  Ross  Schofield  descended  to  set  up  the 
quatrain,  and  Fisbee  and  Parker  were  left  to  silence 
and  troubled  meditation. 

They  were  seated  on  opposite  sides  of  Harkless's 
desk.  Sheets  of  blank  scratch-paper  lay  before 
them,  and  they  relaxed  not  their  knit  brows.  Now 
and  then,  one  of  them,  after  gazing  vacantly  about 
the  room  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  would  attack  the 
sheet  before  him  with  fiercest  energy;  then  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  293 

energy  would  taper  off,  and  the  paragraph  halt, 
the  writer  peruse  it  dubiously,  then  angrily  tear 
off  the  sheet  and  hurl  it  to  the  floor.  All  around 
them  lay  these  snowballs  of  defeated  journalism. 

Mr.  Parker  was  a  long,  loose,  gaunt  gentleman, 
with  a  peremptory  forehead  and  a  capable  jaw,  but 
on  the  present  occasion  his  capability  was  baffled 
and  swamped  in  the  attempt  to  steer  the  craft  of  his 
talent  up  an  unaccustomed  channel  without  a  pilot. 
"I  don't  see  as  it's  any  use,  Fisbee,"  he  said,  mo 
rosely,  after  a  series  of  efforts  that  littered  the  floor 
in  every  direction.  "I'm  a  born  compositor,  and  I 
can't  shift  my  trade.  I  stood  the  pace  fairly  for  a 
week,  but  I'll  have  to  give  up;  I'm  run  plumb  dry. 
I  only  hope  they  won't  show  him  our  Saturday  with 
your  three  columns  of  'A  Word  of  the  Lotus  Mo 
tive,'  reprinted  from  February.  I  begin  to  sym 
pathize  with  the  boss,  because  I  know  what  he  felt 
when  I  ballyragged  him  for  copy.  Yes,  sir,  I  know 
how  it  is  to  be  an  editor  in  a  dead  town  now." 

"We  must  remember,  too,"  said  his  companion, 
thoughtfully,  "there  is  the  Thursday  issue  of  this 
week  to  be  prepared,  almost  at  once." 

"Don't!  Please  don't  mention  that,  Fisbee!" 
Parker  tilted  far  back  in  his  chair  with  his  feet 


294  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

anchored  under  the  desk,  preserving  a  precarious 
balance.  "I  ain't  as  grateful  for  my  promotion  to 
joint  Editor-in-Chief  as  I  might  be.  I'm  a  middling 
poor  man  for  the  hour,  I  guess,"  he  remarked,  pain 
fully  following  the  peregrinations  of  a  fly  on  his 
companion's  sleeve. 

Mr.  Fisbee  twisted  up  another  sheet,  and  em 
ployed  his  eyes  in  following  the  course  of  a  crack  in 
the  plaster,  a  slender  black  aperture  which  staggered 
across  the  dusty  ceiling  and  down  the  dustier  wall 
to  disappear  behind  a  still  dustier  map  of  Carlow 
County.  "That's  the  trouble!"  exclaimed  Parker, 
observing  the  other's  preoccupation.  "Soon  as 
you  get  to  writing  a  line  or  two  that  seems  kind  of 
promising,  you  begin  to  take  a  morbid  interest  in 
that  blamed  crack.  It's  busted  up  enough  copy  for 
me,  the  last  eight  days,  to  have  filled  her  up  twenty 
times  over.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  care  to  see  that 
crack  again.  I  turned  my  back  on  it,  but  there 
wasn't  any  use  in  that,  because  if  a  fly  lights  on  you 
I  watch  him  like  a  brother,  and  if  there  ain't  any  fly 
I've  caught  a  mania  for  tapping  my  teeth  with  a 
pencil,  that  is  just  as  good." 

To  these  two  gentlemen,  thus  disengaged,  re- 
entered  (after  a  much  longer  absence  than  Miss 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   295 

Selina's  quatrain  justified)  Mr.  Ross  Schofield,  a 
healthy  glow  of  exertion  lending  pleasant  color  to 
his  earnest  visage,  and  an  almost  visible  laurel  of 
success  crowning  his  brows.  In  addition  to  this 
imaginary  ornament,  he  was  horned  with  pencils 
over  both  ears,  and  held  some  scribbled  sheets  in  his 
hand. 

"I  done  a  good  deal  down  there,"  he  announced 
cheerfully,  drawing  up  a  chair  to  the  desk.  "I 
thought  up  a  heap  of  things  I've  heard  lately,  and 
they'll  fill  up  mighty  well.  That  there  poem  of  Miss 
Seliny's  was  a  kind  of  an  inspiration  to  me,  and  I 
tried  one  myself,  and  it  didn't  come  hard  at  all. 
When  I  got  started  once,  it  jest  seemed  to  flow  from 
me.  I  didn't  set  none  of  it  up,"  he  added  modestly, 
but  with  evident  consciousness  of  having  unearthed 
genius  in  himself  and  an  elate  foreknowledge  of  the 
treat  in  store  for  his  companions.  "I  thought  I'd 
ort  to  see  how  you  liked  it  first."  He  offered  the 
papers  to  Mr.  Parker,  but  the  foreman  shook  his 
head. 

"You  read  it,  Ross,"  I  said.  "I  don't  believe  I 
feel  hearty  enough  to-day.  Read  the  items  first — 
we  can  bear  the  waiting." 

"What  waiting?"  inquired  Mr.  Schofield. 


296  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"For  the  poem,"  replied  Parker,  grimly. 

With  a  vague  but  not  fleeting  smile,  Ross  settled 
the  sheets  in  order,  and  exhibited  tokens  of  that 
pleasant  nevousness  incident  to  appearing  before 
a  critical  audience,  armed  with  literature  whose  mer 
its  should  delight  them  out  of  the  critical  attitude. 
"I  run  across  a  great  scheme  down  there,"  he  volun 
teered  amiably,  by  way  of  preface;  "I  described 
everything  in  full,  in  as  many  words  as  I  could  think 
up;  it's  mighty  filling,  and  it'll  please  the  public,  too; 
it  gives  'em  a  lot  more  information  than  they  us'ally 
git.  I  reckon  there's  two  sticks  of  jest  them  extry 
words  alone." 

"Go  on,"  said  the  foreman,  rather  ominously. 

Ross  began  to  read,  a  matter  necessitating  a  puck 
ered  brow  and  at  times  an  amount  of  hesitancy  and 
ruminating,  as  his  results  had  already  cooled  a  little, 
and  he  found  his  hand  difficult  to  decipher.  "Here's 
the  first,"  he  said: 

"  'The  large  and  handsome,  fawn-colored,  two 
years  and  one-half  year  old  Jersey  of  Frederick 
Ribshaw  Jones,  Esquire 

The  foreman  interrupted  him:  "Every  reader  of 
the  'Herald'  will  be  glad  to  know  that  Jersey's  age 
and  color!  But  go  on." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  297 

"  ' — Frederick  Ribshaw  Jones,  Esquire,'  "  pursued 
his  assistant,  with  some  discomfiture,  * :  * — Esquire, 
our  popular  and  well-dressed  fellow-citizen ' ' 

"You're  right;  Rib  Jones  is  a  heavy  swell,"  said 
Parker  in  a  breaking  voice. 

"  * — Citizen,  can  be  daily  seen  wandering  from 
the  far  end  of  his  pasture-lot  to  the  other  far  end  of 
it.'  " 

"  'His!'  "  exclaimed  Parker.  "  'His  pasture- 
lot?'  The  Jersey's?" 

"No,"  returned  the  other,  meekly,  "Rib  Jones's." 

"Oh,"  said  Parker.  "Is  that  the  end  of  that 
item?  It  is!  You  want  to  get  out  of  Plattville,  my 
friend;  it's  too  small  for  you;  you  go  to  Rouen  and 
you'll  be  city  editor  of  the  'Journal'  inside  of  a 
week.  Let's  have  another." 

Mr.  Schofield  looked  up  blankly;  however,  he  felt 
that  there  was  enough  live,  legitimate  news  in  his 
other  items  to  redeem  the  somewhat  tame  quality 
of  the  first,  and  so,  after  having  crossed  out  several 
of  the  extra  words  which  had  met  so  poor  a  recep 
tion,  he  proceeded: 

'Whit  Upton's  pigs  broke  out  last  Wednesday 
and  rooted  up  a  fine  patch  of  garden  truck.  Hard 
luck,  Whit.' 


298  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

'  'Jerusalem  Hawkins  took  a  drive  yesterday 
afternoon.  He  had  the  bay  to  his  side-bar.  Jee's 
buggy  has  been  recently  washed.  Congratulations, 
Jee.'  " 

"There's  thrilling  information!"  shouted  the  fore 
man.  "That'll  touch  the  gentle  reader  to  the 
marrow.  The  boss  had  to  use  some  pretty  rotten 
copy  himself,  but  he  never  got  as  low  as  that.  But 
we'll  use  it;  oh,  we'll  use  it!  If  we  don't  get  her  out 
he'll  have  a  set-back,  but  if  they  show  her  to  him 
it'll  kill  him.  If  it  doesn't,  and  he  gets  well,  he'll 
kill  us.  But  we'll  use  it,  Ross.  Don't  read  any 
more  to  us,  though;  I  feel  weaker  than  I  did,  and 
I  wasn't  strong  before.  Go  down  and  set  it  all  up." 

Mr.  Schofield  rejoined  with  an  injured  air,  and  yet 
hopefully:  "I'd  like  to  see  what  you  think  of  the 
poetry — it  seemed  all  right  to  me,  but  I  reckon  you 
ain't  ever  the  best  judge  of  your  own  work.  Shall 
I  read  it?"  The  foreman  only  glanced  at  him  in 
s.Hence,  and  the  young  man  took  this  for  assent.  "I 
haven't  made  up  any  name  for  it  yet." 

"  'O,  the  orphan  boy  stood  on  the  hill, 
The  wind  blew  cold  and  very  chill — '  " 

Glancing  at  his  auditors,  he  was  a  trifle  abashed  to 
observe  a  glaze  upon  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Parker,  while 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   299 

a  purple  tide  rose  above  his  neck-band  and  unnatu 
rally  distended  his  throat  and  temples.  With  a 
placative  little  laugh,  Mr.  Schofield  remarked:  "I 
git  the  swing  to  her  all  right,  I  reckon,  but  some 
how  it  doesn't  sound  so  kind  of  good  as  when  I  was 
writing  it."  There  was  no  response,  and  he  went  on 
hurriedly: 

''  'But  there  he  saw  the  little  rill — '  " 

The  poet  paused  to  say,  with  another  amiable  laugh : 
"It's  sort  of  hard  to  git  out  of  them  ill,  hill,  chill 
rhymes  once  you  strike  'em.  It  runs  on  like  this: 

"  '—Little  rill 
That  curved  and  spattered  around  the  hill.' 

I  guess  that's  all  right,  to  use  'hill'  twice;  don't 
you  reckon  so? 

"  'And  the  orphan  he  stood  there  until 
The  wind  and  all  gave  him  a  chill; 
And   he   sickened — '  " 

That  day  Ross  read  no  more,  for  the  tall  printer, 
seemingly  incapable  of  coherent  speech,  kicked  the 
desk  impotently,  threw  his  arms  above  his  head, 
and,  his  companions  confidently  looking  to  see  him 
foam  at  the  mouth,  lost  his  balance  and  toppled 
over  backward,  his  extensive  legs  waving  wildly  in 
the  air  as  he  struck  the  floor.  Mr.  Schofield  fled. 


300  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Parker  made  no  effort  to  rise,  but  lay  glaring  at 
the  ceiling,  breathing  hard.  He  remained  in  that 
position  for  a  long  time,  until  finally  the  glaze  wore 
away  from  his  eyes  and  a  more  rational  expression 
settled  over  his  features.  Mr.  Fisbee  addressed 
him  timidly:  "You  don't  think  we  could  reduce  the 
size  of  the  sheet?" 

"It  would  kill  him,"  answered  his  prostrate  com 
panion.  "We've  got  to  fill  her  solid  some  way, 
though  I  give  up;  I  don't  know  how.  How  thai 
man  has  worked!  It  was  genius.  He  just  floated 
around  the  county  and  soaked  in  items,  and  he 
wrote  editorials  that  people  read.  One  thing's 
certain:  we  can't  do  it.  We're  ruining  his  paper 
for  him,  and  when  he  gets  able  to  read,  it'll  hurt 
him  bad.  Mighty  few  knew  how  much  pride  he 
had  in  it.  Has  it  struck  you  that  now  would  be  a 
precious  good  time  for  it  to  occur  to  Rod  McCune 
to  come  out  of  his  hole?  Suppose  we  go  by  the 
board,  what's  to  stop  him?  WTiat's  to  stop  him, 
anyway?  Who  knows  where  the  boss  put  those 
copies  and  affidavits,  and  if  we  did  know,  would 
we  know  the  best  way  to  use  'em?  If  we  did,  what's 
to  keep  the.  'Herald'  alive  until  McCune  lifts  his 
head?  And  if  we  don't  stop  him,  the  'Carlo  w 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  301 

County  Herald'  is  finished.    Something's  got  to  be 
done!" 

No  one  realized  this  more  poignantly  than  Mr. 
Fisbee,  but  no  one  was  less  capable  of  doing  some 
thing  of  his  own  initiation.  And  although  the 
Tuesday  issue  was  forthcoming,  embarrassingly  pale 
in  spots — most  spots — Mr.  Martin  remarked  rather 
publicly  that  the  items  were  not  what  you  might 
call  stirring,  and  that  the  unpatented  pages  put  him 
in  mind  of  Jones's  field  in  winter  with  a  dozen 
chunks  of  coal  dropped  in  the  snow.  And  his 
observations  on  the  later  issues  of  the  week  (issues 
which  were  put  forth  with  a  suggestion  of  spasm, 
and  possibly  to  the  permanent  injury  of  Mr.  Parker's 
health,  he  looked  so  thin)  were  too  cruelly  unkind 
to  be  repeated  here.  Indeed,  Mr.  Fisbee,  Parker, 
the  luckless  Mr.  Schofield,  and  the  young  Tip- 
worthy  may  be  not  untruthfully  likened  to  a  band 
of  devoted  mariners  lost  in  the  cold  and  glaring 
regions  of  a  journalistic  Greenland:  limitless  plains 
of  empty  white  paper  extending  about  them  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  while  life  depended  upon 
their  making  these  terrible  voids  productive;  and 
they  shrank  appalled  from  the  task,  knowing  no 
means  to  fertilize  the  barrens;  having  no  talent  to 


302  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

bring  the  still  snows  into  harvests,  and  already 
feeling — in  the  chill  of  Mr.  Martin's  remarks — a 
touch  of  the  frost  that  might  wither  them. 

It  was  Fisbee  who  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  a 
relief  expedition  clipping  the  rough  seas  on  its  lively 
way  to  rescue  them,  and,  although  his  first  glimpse 
of  the  jaunty  pennant  of  the  relieving  vessels  was 
over  the  shoulder  of  an  iceberg,  nothing  was  surer 
than  that  the  craft  was  flying  to  them  with  all  good 
and  joyous  speed.  The  iceberg  just  mentioned 
assumed — by  no  melting  process,  one  may  be  sure 
• — the  form  of  a  long  letter,  first  postmarked  at 
Ilouen,  and  its  latter  substance  was  as  follows: 

"Henry  and  I  have  always  believed  you  as  selfish,  James  Fisbee, 
us  you  are  self-ingrossed  and  incapable.  She  has  told  us  of  your 
'renunciation';  of  your  'forbidding'  her  to  remain  with  you;  how 
you  commanded,'  after  you  had  'begged'  her,  to  return  to  us,  and 
how  her  conscience  told  her  she  should  stay  and  share  your  life  in 
spite  of  our  long  care  of  her,  but  that  she  yielded  to  your  'wishes' 
and  our  entreaty.  What  have  you  ever  done  for  her  and  what  have 
you  to  offer  her?  She  is  our  daughter,  and  needless  to  say  we  shall 
still  take  care  of  her,  for  no  one  believes  you  capable  of  it,  even  in 
that  miserable  place,  and,  of  course,  in  time  she  will  return  to  her 
better  wisdom,  her  home,  and  her  duty.  I  need  scarcely  say  we 
have  given  up  the  happy  months  we  had  planned  to  spend  in  Dres 
den.  Henry  and  I  can  only  stay  at  home  to  pray  that  her  pre 
posterous  mania  will  wear  itself  out  in  short  order,  as  she  will  find 
herself  unfitted  for  the  ridiculous  task  which  she  insists  upon  at 
tempting  against  the  earnest  wishes  of  us  who  have  been  more  than 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  303 

father  and  mother  to  her.  Of  course,  she  has  talked  volumes  of 
her  affection  for  us,  and  of  her  gratitude,  which  we  do  not  want — 
we  only  want  her  to  stay  with  us.  Please,  please  try  to  make  her 
come  back  to  us — we  cannot  bear  it  long.  If  you  are  a  man  you  will 
send  her  to  us  soon.  Her  excuse  for  not  returning  on  the  day  we 
wired  our  intention  to  go  abroad  at  once  (and  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
now  that  our  intention  to  go  was  formed  in  order  to  bring  affairs 
to  a  crisis  and  to  draw  her  away  from  your  influence — we  always 
dreaded  her  visit  to  you  and  held  it  off  for  years) — her  excuse  was 
that  your  best  friend,  and,  as  I  understand  it,  your  patron,  had 
been  injured  in  some  brawl  in  that  Christian  country  of  yours — a 
charming  place  to  take  a  girl  like  her — and  she  would  not  leave  you 
in  your  'distress'  until  more  was  known  of  the  man's  injuries.  •  And 
now  she  insists — and  you  will  know  it  from  her  by  the  next  mail — on 
returning  to  Plattville,  forsooth,  because  she  has  been  reading  your 
newspaper,  and  she  says  she  knows  you  are  in  difficulties  over  it,  and 
it  is  her  moral  obligation — as  by  some  wild  reasoning  of  her  own 
she  considers  herself  responsible  for  your  ruffling  patron's  having  been 
alone  when  he  was  shot — to  go  down  and  help.  I  suppose  he  made 
love  to  her,  as  all  the  young  men  she  meets  always  do,  sooner  or  later, 
but  I  have  no  fear  of  any  rustic  entanglements  for  her;  she  has  never 
been  really  interested,  save  in  one  affair.  We  are  quite  powerless — 
we  have  done  everything;  but  we  cannot  alter  her  determination  to 
edit  your  paper  for  you.  Naturally,  she  knows  nothing  whatever 
about  such  work,  but  she  says,  with  the  air  of  triumphantly  squelch 
ing  all  such  argument,  that  she  has  talked  a  great  deal  to  Mr. 
Macauley  of  the  'Journal.'  Mr.  Macauley  is  the  affair  I  have 
alluded  to;  he  is  what  she  has  meant  when  she  has  said,  at  different 
times,  that  she  was  interested  in  journalism.  But  she  is  very 
business-like  now.  She  has  bought  a  typewriter  and  purchased  a 
great  number  of  soft  pencils  and  erasers  at  an  art  shop;  I  am  only 
surprised  that  she  does  not  intend  to  edit  your  miserable  paper  in 
water-colors.  She  is  coming  at  once.  For  mercy's  sake  don't 


304  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

telegraph  her  not  to;  your  forbiddings  work  the  wrong  way.  Our 
only  hope  is  that  she  will  find  the  conditions  so  utterly  discouraging 
at  the  very  start  that  she  will  give  it  up  and  come  home.  If  you 
are  a  man  you  will  help  to  make  them  so.  She  has  promised  to 
stay  with  that  country  girl  with  whom  she  contracted  such  an  in 
comprehensible  friendship  at  Miss  Jennings's. 

"Oh,  James,  pray  for  grace  to  be  a  man  once  in  your  life  and  send 
her  back  to  us!  Be  a  man — try  to  be  a  man!  Remember  the  angel 
you  killed!  Remember  all  we  have  done  for  you  and  what  a  return 
you  have  made,  and  be  a  man  for  the  first  time.  Try  and  be  a  man! 

"Your  unhappy  sister-in-law, 

"MARTHA  SHEHWOOD." 

Mr.  Fisbee  read  the  letter  with  a  great,  rising 
delight  which  no  sense  of  duty  could  down;  indeed, 
he  perceived  that  his  sense  of  duty  had  ceased  to 
conflict  with  the  one  strong  hope  of  his  life,  just  as 
he  perceived  that  to  be  a  man,  according  to  Martha 
Sherwood,  was,  in  part,  to  assist  Martha  Sherwood 
to  have  her  way  in  things;  and,  for  the  rest,  to  be 
the  sort  of  man  she  persuaded  herself  she  would  be 
were  she  not  a  woman.  This  he  had  never  been 
able  to  be. 

By  some  whimsy  of  fate,  or  by  a  failure  of  Karma 
(or,  perhaps,  by  some  triumph  of  Kismetic  retribu 
tion),  James  Fisbee  was  born  in  one  of  the  most 
business-like  and  artless  cities  of  a  practical  and 
modern  country,  of  money-getting,  money-saving 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  305 

parents,  and  he  was  bom  a  dreamer  of  the  past.  He 
grew  up  a  student  of  basilican  lore,  of  choir-screens, 
of  Persian  frescoes,  and  an  ardent  lounger  in  the 
somewhat  musty  precincts  of  Chaldea  and  Byzan 
tium  and  Babylon.  Early  Christian  Symbolism,  a 
dispute  over  the  site  of  a  Greek  temple,  the  deriva 
tion  of  the  lotus  column,  the  restoration  of  a  Gothic 
buttress — these  were  the  absorbing  questions  of  his 
youth,  with  now  and  then  a  lighter  moment  spent 
in  analytical  consideration  of  the  extra-mural  deco 
rations  of  St.  Mark's.  The  world  buzzed  along  after 
its  own  fashion,  not  disturbing  him,  and  his  absorp 
tions  permitted  only  a  faint  consciousness  of  the 
despair  of  his  relatives  regarding  his  mind.  Arrived 
at  middle-age,  and  a  little  more,  he  found  himself 
alone  in  the  world  (though,  for  that  matter,  he  had 
always  been  alone  and  never  of  the  world),  and  there 
was  plenty  of  money  for  him  with  various  bankers 
who  appeared  to  know  about  looking  after  it. 
Returning  to  the  town  of  his  nativity  after  sundry 
expeditions  in  Syria — upon  which  lie  had  been 
accompanied  by  dusky  gentlemen  with  pickaxes 
and  curly,  long-barrelled  muskets— he  met,  and 
was  married  by,  a  lady  who  was  ambitious,  and 
who  saw  in  him  (probably  as  a  fulfilment  of  another 


306  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Kismetic  punishment)  a  power  of  learning  and  a 
destined  success.  Not  long  after  the  birth  of  their 
only  child,  a  daughter,  he  was  "called  to  fill  the  chair'" 
of  archaeology  in  a  newly  founded  university;  one  of 
the  kind  which  a  State  and  a  millionaire  combine  to 
purchase  ready-made.  This  one  was  handed  down 
off  the  shelf  in  a  more  or  less  chaotic  condition,  and 
for  a  period  of  years  betrayed  considerable  doubt  as 
to  its  own  intentions,  undecided  whether  they  were 
classical  or  technical;  and  in  the  settlement  of  that 
doubt  lay  the  secret  of  the  past  of  the  one  man  in 
Plattville  so  unhappy  as  to  possess  a  past.  From 
that  settlement  and  his  own  preceding  action 
resulted  his  downfall,  his  disgrace  with  his  wife's 
relatives,  the  loss  of  his  wife,  the  rage,  surprise,  and 
anguish  of  her  sister,  Martha,  and  Martha's  husband, 
Henry  Sherwood,  and  the  separation  from  his  little 
daughter,  which  was  by  far  to  him  the  hardest  to 
bear.  For  Fisbee,  in  his  own  way,  and  without  con 
sulting  anybody — it  never  occurred  to  him,  and  he 
was  supposed  often  to  forget  that  he  had  a  wife  and 
child — had  informally  turned  over  to  the  university 
all  the  money  which  the  banks  had  kindly  taken  care 
of,  and  had  given  it  to  equip  an  expedition  which 
never  expedited.  A  new  president  of  the  institution 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  307 

was  installed;  he  talked  to  the  trustees;  they  met, 
and  elected  to  become  modern  and  practical  and 
technical;  they  abolished  the  course  in  fine  arts, 
which  abolished  Fisbee's  connection  with  them,  and 
they  then  employed  his  money  to  erect  a  building 
for  the  mechanical  engineering  department.  Fisbee 
was  left  with  nothing.  His  wife  and  her  kinsfolk 
exhibited  no  brilliancy  in  holding  a  totally  irrespon 
sible  man  down  to  responsibilities,  and  they  made 
a  tragedy  of  a  not  surprising  fiasco.  Mrs.  Fisbee 
had  lived  in  her  ambitions,  and  she  died  of  heart 
break  over  the  discovery  of  what  manner  of  man  she 
had  married.  But,  before  she  died,  she  wisely  pro 
vided  for  her  daughter. 

Fisbee  told  Parker  the  story  after  his  own  queer 
fashion. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Parker,"  he  said,  as  they  sat 
together  in  the  dust  and  litter  of  the  "Herald" 
office,  on  Sunday  afternoon,  "you  see,  I  admit  that 
my  sister-in-law  has  always  withheld  her  approba 
tion  from  me,  and  possibly  her  disapproval  is  well 
founded — I  shall  say  probably.  My  wife  had  also 
a  considerable  sum,  and  this  she  turned  over  to  me 
at  the  time  of  our  marriage,  though  I  had  no  wish 
regarding  it  one  way  or  the  other.  When  I  gave 


308  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

my  money  to  the  university  with  which  I  had  the 
honor  to  be  connected,  I  added  to  it  the  fund  I  had 
received  from  her,  as  I  was  the  recipient  of  a  com 
fortable  salary  as  a  lecturer  in  the  institution  and 
had  no  fear  of  not  living  well,  and  I  was  greatly 
interested  in  providing  that  the  expedition  should 
be  perfectly  equipped.  Expeditions  of  the  magni 
tude  of  that  which  I  had  planned  are  expensive,  I 
should,  perhaps,  inform  you,  and  this  one  was  to 
carry  on  investigations  regarding  several  important 
points,  very  elaborately;  and  I  am  still  convinced  it 
would  have  settled  conclusively  many  vital  questions 
concerning  the  derivation  of  the  Babylonian  column, 
as:  whether  the  lotus  column  may  be  without  preju 
dice  said  to — but  at  the  present  moment  I  will  not 
enter  into  that.  I  fear  I  had  no  great  experience  in 
money  matters,  for  the  transaction  had  been  almost 
entirely  verbal,  and  there  was  nothing  to  bind  the 
trustees  to  carry  out  my  plans  for  the  expedition. 
They  were  very  sympathetic,  but  what  could  they 
do?  they  begged  leave  to  inquire.  Such  an  institu 
tion  cannot  give  back  money  once  donated,  and  it 
was  clearly  out  of  character  for  a  school  of  tech 
nology  and  engineering  to  send  savants  to  investi 
gate  the  lotus  column." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   309 

"I  see,"  Mr.  Parker  observed,  genially.  He  lis 
tened  with  the  most  ingratiating  attention,  knowing 
that  he  had  a  rich  sensation  to  set  before  Plattville 
as  a  dish  before  a  king,  for  Fisbec's  was  no  confi 
dential  communication.  The  old  man  might  have 
told  a  part  of  his  history  long  ago,  but  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  talk  about  his  affairs — things  had 
a  habit  of  not  occurring  to  Fisbee — and  the  efforts 
of  the  gossips  to  draw  him  out  always  passed  over 
his  serene  and  absent  head. 

"It  was  a  blow  to  my  wife,"  the  old  man  con 
tinued,  sadly,  "and  I  cannot  deny  that  her  reproaches 
were  as  vehement  as  her  disappointment  was 
sincere."  He  hurried  over  this  portion  of  his  nar 
rative  with  a  vaguely  troubled  look,  but  the  intelli 
gent  Parker  read  poor  Mrs.  Fisbee's  state  of  mind 
between  the  sentences.  "She  never  seemed  to 
regard  me  in  the  same  light  again,"  the  archaeologist 
went  on.  "She  did  not  conceal  from  me  that  she 
was  surprised  and  that  she  could  not  look  upon  me 
as  a  practical  man;  indeed,  I  may  say,  she  appeared 
to  regard  me  with  marked  antipathy.  She  sent  for 
her  sister,  and  begged  her  to  take  our  daughter  and 
keep  her  from  me,  as  she  did  not  consider  me  prac 
tical  enough — I  will  substitute  for  her  more  embit- 


310  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

tered  expressions — to  provide  for  a  child  and  instruct 
it  in  the  world's  ways.  My  sister-in-law,  who  was 
childless,  consented  to  adopt  the  little  one,  on  the 
conditions  that  I  renounced  all  claim,  and  that  the 
child  legally  assumed  her  name  and  should  be  in  all 
respects  as  her  own  daughter,  and  that  I  consented 
to  see  her  but  once  a  year,  in  Rouen,  at  my  brother- 
in-law's  home. 

"I  should  have  refused,  but  I — my  wife — that  is 
— she  was — very  pressing — in  her  last  hours,  and 
they  all  seemed  to  feel  that  I  ought  to  make  amends 
— all  except  the  little  girl  herself,  I  should  say,  for 
she  possessed,  even  as  an  infant,  an  exceptional 
affection  for  her  father.  I  had  nothing;  my  salary 
was  gone,  and  I  was  discomfited  by  the  combined 
actions  of  the  trustees  and  my  relatives,  so — I— I 
gave  her  up  to  them,  and  my  wife  passed  away  in  a 
more  cheerful  frame  of  mind,  I  think.  That  is  about 
all.  One  of  the  instructors  obtained  the  position 
here  for  me,  which  I — I  finally — lost,  and  I  went  to 
see  the  little  girl  every  New  Year's  day.  This  year 
she  declared  her  intention  of  visiting  me,  but  she 
was  persuaded  by  friends  who  were  conversant  with 
the  circumstances  to  stay  with  them,  where  I  could 
be  with  her  almost  as  much  as  at  my  apartment  at 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  311 

Mr.  Tibbs's.  She  had  long  since  declared  her  inten 
tion  of  some  day  returning  to  live  with  me,  and 
when  she  came  she  was  strenuous  in  insisting  that 
the  day  had  come."  The  old  man's  voice  broke 
suddenly  as  he  observed:  "She  has — a  very — beau 
tiful — character,  Mr.  Parker." 

The  foreman  nodded  with  warm  confirmation. 
"I  believe  you,  sir.  Yes,  sir;  I  saw  her,  and  I  guess 
she  looks  it.  You  take  that  kind  of  a  lady  usually, 
and  catch  her  in  a  crowd  like  the  one  show-day,  and 
she  can't  help  doing  the  Grand  Duchess,  giving  the 
tenants  a  treat — but  not  her;  she  didn't  seem  to 
separate  herself  from  'em,  some  way." 

"She  is  a  fine  lady,"  said  the  other  simply.  "I 
did  not  accept  her  renunciation,  though  I  acknowl 
edge  I  forbade  it  with  a  very  poignant  envy.  I 
could  not  be  the  cause  of  her  giving  up  for  my  sake 
her  state  of  ease  and  luxury — for  my  relatives  are 
more  than  well-to-do,  and  they  made  it  plain  she 
must  choose  between  them  and  me,  with  the  design, 
I  think,  of  making  it  more  difficult  to  choose  me. 
And,  also,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  it  did  to  her,  that  she 
owed  them  nearly  everything,  but  she  declared  I  had 
lived  alone  so  long  that  she  owed  me  everything, 
also.  She  is  a — beautiful — character,  Mr.  Parker." 


312  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Well,"  said  Parker,  after  a  pause,  "the  town  will 
be  upside  down  over  this;  and  folks  will  be  mighty 
glad  to  have  it  explained  about  your  being  out  there 
so  much,  and  at  the  deepo,  and  all  this  and  that. 
Everybody  in  the  place  has  been  wondering  what  in 
—that  is —  "  he  finished  in  some  confusion — "that  is 
— what  I  started  to  say  was  that  it  won't  be  so  bad 
as  it  might  be,  having  a  lady  in  the  office  here.  I 
don't  cuss  to  speak  of,  and  Ross  can  lay  off  on  his 
till  the  boss  comes  back.  Besides,  it's  our  only 
chance.  If  she  can't  make  the  'Herald'  hum,  we  go 
to  the  wall." 

The  old  man  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  "I  for 
bade  the  renunciation  she  wished  to  make  for  my 
sake,"  he  said,  gently,  "but  I  accept  it  now  for  the 
sake  of  our  stricken  friend — for  Mr.  Harkless." 

"And  for  the  Carlow  'Herald,'  "  completed  the 
foreman. 

The  morning  following  that  upon  which  this  con 
versation  took  place,  the  two  gentlemen  stood 
together  on  the  station  platform,  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  express  from  Rouen.  It  was  a  wet 
gray  day;  the  wide  country  lay  dripping  under  form 
less  wraps  of  thin  mist,  and  a  warm,  drizzling  rain 
blackened  the  weather-beaten  shingles  of  the  station; 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   313 

made  clear-reflecting  puddles  of  the  unevenly  worn 
planks  of  the  platform,  and  dampened  the  packing- 
cases  that  never  went  anywhere  too  thoroughly  for 
occupation  by  the  station-lounger,  and  ran  in  a  little 
crystal  stream  off  Fisbee's  brown  cotton  umbrella 
and  down  Mr.  Parker's  back.  The  'bus  driver,  Mr. 
Bennett,  the  proprietor  of  two  attendant  "cut- 
unders,"  and  three  or  four  other  worthies  whom 
business,  or  the  lack  of  it,  called  to  that  locality, 
availed  themselves  of  the  shelter  of  the  waiting- 
room,  but  the  gentlemen  of  the  "Herald"  were  too 
agitated  to  be  confined,  save  by  the  limits  of  the 
horizon.  They  had  reached  the  station  half  an  hour 
before  train  time,  and  consumed  the  interval  in 
pacing  the  platform  under  the  cotton  umbrella, 
addressing  each  other  only  in  monosyllables.  Those 
in  the  waiting-room  gossiped  eagerly,  and  for  the 
thousandth  time,  about  the  late  events,  and  the 
tremendous  news  concerning  Fisbee.  Judd  Bennett 
looked  out  through  the  rainy  doorway  at  the  latter 
with  reverence  and  a  fine  pride  of  townsmanship, 
declaring  it  to  be  his  belief  that  Fisbee  and  Parker 
were  waiting  for  her  at  the  present  moment.  It  was 
a  lady,  and  a  bird  of  a  lady,  too,  else  why  should 
Cale  Parker  be  wearing  a  coat,  and  be  otherwise 


314  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

dooded  and  fixed  up  beyond  any  wedding?  Judd  and 
his  friends  were  somewhat  excited  over  Parker. 

Fisbee  was  clad  in  his  best  shabby  black,  which 
lent  an  air  of  state  to  the  occasion,  but  Mr.  Parker — 
Caleb  Parker,  whose  heart,  during  his  five  years  of 
residence  in  Plattville,  had  been  steel-proof  against 
all  the  feminine  blandishments  of  the  town,  whose 
long,  lank  face  had  shown  beneath  as  long,  and 
lanker,  locks  of  proverbially  uncombed  hair,  he  who 
had  for  weeks  conspicuously  affected  a  single, 
string-patched  suspender,  who  never,  even  upon  the 
Sabbath  day,  wore  a  collar  or  blacked  his  shoes — 
what  aesthetic  leaven  had  entered  his  soul  that  he 
donned  not  a  coat  alone  but  also  a  waistcoat  with 
checks? — and,  more  than  that,  a  gleaming  celluloid 
collar? — and,  more  than  that,  a  brilliant  blue  tie? 
What  had  this  iron  youth  to  do  with  a  rising  excite 
ment  at  train  time  and  brilliant  blue  ties? 

Also,  it  might  have  been  inquired  if  this  parade 
of  fashion  had  no  connection  with  the  simultaneous 
action  of  Mr.  Ross  Schofield;  for  Ross  was  at  this 
hour  engaged  in  decorating  the  battered  chairs  in 
the  "Herald"  editorial  room  with  blue  satin  ribbon, 
the  purchase  of  which  at  the  Dry  Goods  Emporium 
had  been  directed  by  a  sudden  inspiration  of  his 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  315 

superior  of  the  composing  force.  It  was  Ross's 
intention  to  garnish  each  chair  with  an  elaborately 
tied  bow,  but,  as  he  was  no  sailor  and  understood 
only  the  intricacies  of  a  hard-knot,  he  confined  him 
self  to  that  species  of  ornamentation,  leaving,  how 
ever,  very  long  ends  of  ribbon  hanging  down  after 
the  manner  of  the  pendants  of  rosettes. 

It  scarcely  needs  the  statement  that  his  labors 
were  in  honor  of  the  new  editor-in-chief  of  the  Car- 
low  "Herald."  The  advent  and  the  purposes  of  this 
personage  were,  as  yet,  known  certainly  to  only 
those  of  the  "Herald"  and  to  the  Briscoes.  It  had 
been  arranged,  however,  that  Minnie  and  her  father 
were  not  to  come  to  the  station,  for  the  journalistic 
crisis  was  immoderately  pressing;  the  "Herald" 
was  to  appear  on  the  morrow,  and  the  new  editor 
wished  to  plunge  directly,  and  without  the  briefest 
distraction,  into  the  paper's  difficulties,  now  accumu 
lated  into  a  veritable  sea  of  troubles.  The  editor 
was  to  be  delivered  to  the  Briscoes  at  eventide  and 
returned  by  them  again  at  dewy  morn;  and  this  was 
to  be  the  daily  programme.  It  had  been  further — 
and  most  earnestly — stipulated  that  when  the 
wounded  proprietor  of  the  ailing  journal  should  be 
informed  of  the  addition  to  his  forces,  he  was  not  to 


316  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

know,  or  to  have  the  slenderest  hint  of,  the  sex  oc 
identity  of  the  person  in  charge  during  his  absence. 
It  was  inevitable  that  Plattville  (already  gaping  to 
the  uttermost)  would  buzz  voluminously  over  it 
before  night,  but  Judge  Briscoe  volunteered  to 
prevent  the  buzz  from  reaching  Rouen.  He  under 
took  to  interview  whatever  citizens  should  visit 
Harkless,  or  write  to  him — when  his  illness  permitted 
visits  and  letters — and  forewarn  them  of  the  incum 
bent's  desires.  To-day,  the  judge  stayed  at  home 
with  his  daughter,  who  trilled  about  the  house  for 
happiness,  and,  in  their  place,  the  "Herald"  deputa 
tion  of  two  had  repaired  to  the  station  to  act  as  a 
reception  committee. 

Far  away  the  whistle  of  the  express  was  heard, 
muffled  to  sweetness  in  the  damp,  and  the  drivers, 
whip  in  hand,  came  out  upon  the  platform,  and 
the  loafers  issued,  also,  to  stand  under  the  eaves 
and  lean  their  backs  against  the  drier  boards,  pre 
paring  to  eye  the  travellers  with  languid  raillery. 

Mr.  Parker,  very  nervous  himself,  felt  the  old 
man's  elbow  trembling  against  his  own  as  the  great 
engine,  reeking  in  the  mist,  and  sending  great 
clouds  of  white  vapor  up  to  the  sky,  rushed  by  them, 
and  came  to  a  standstill  beyond  the  platform. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  317 

Fisbee  and  the  foreman  made  haste  to  the  nearest 
vestibule,  and  were  gazing  blankly  at  its  barred 
approaches  when  they  heard  a  tremulous  laugh 
behind  them  and  an  exclamation. 

"Upstairs  and  downstairs  and  in  my  lady's  cham 
ber!  Just  behind  you,  dear." 

Turning  quickly,  Parker  beheld  a  blushing  and 
smiling  little  vision,  a  vision  with  light-brown  hair, 
a  vision  enveloped  in  a  light-brown  rain-cloak  and 
with  brown  gloves,  from  which  the  handles  of  a 
big  brown  travelling  bag  were  let  fall,  as  the  vision 
disappeared  under  the  cotton  umbrella,  while  the 
smitten  Judd  Bennett  reeled  gasping  against  the 
station. 

"Dearest,"  the  girl  cried  to  the  old  man,  "you 
were  looking  for  me  between  the  devil  and  deep  sea 
— the  parlor-car  and  the  smoker.  I've  given  up 
cigars,  and  I've  begun  to  study  economy,  so  I  didn't 
come  on  either." 

There  was  but  this  one  passenger  for  Plattville; 
two  enormous  trunks  thundered  out  of  the  baggage 
car  onto  the  truck,  and  it  was  the  work  of  no  more 
than  a  minute  for  Judd  to  hale  them  to  the  top  of 
the  omnibus  (he  well  wished  to  wear  them  next  his 
heart,  but  their  dimensions  forbade  the  thought), 


318  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  immediately  he  cracked  his  whip  and  drove  off 
furiously  through  the  mud  to  deposit  his  freight  at 
the  Briscoes'.  Parker,  Mr.  Fisbee,  and  the  new 
editor-in-chief  set  forth,  directly  after,  in  one  of  the 
waiting  cut-unders,  the  foreman  in  front  with  the 
driver,  and  holding  the  big  brown  bag  on  his  knees 
in  much  the  same  manner  he  would  have  held  an 
alien,  yet  respected,  infant. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   RESCUE 

THE  drizzle  and  mist  blew  in  under  the  top  of 
the  cut-under  as  they  drove  rapidly  into 
town,  and  bright  little  drops  sparkled  on 
the  fair  hair  above  the  new  editor's  forehead  and  on 
the  long  lashes  above  the  new  editor's  cheeks. 

She  shook  these  transient  gems  off  lightly,  as  she 
paused  in  the  doorway  of  the  office  at  tne  top  of  the 
rickety  stairway.  Mr.  Schofield  had  just  added  the 
last  touch  to  his  decorations  and  managed  to  slide 
into  his  coat  as  the  party  came  up  the  stairs,  and 
now,  perspiring,  proud,  embarrassed,  he  assumed 
an  attitude  at  once  deprecatory  of  his  endeavors  and 
pointedly  expectant  of  commendation  for  the  results. 
(He  was  a  modest  youth  and  a  conscious;  after  his 
first  sight  of  her,  as  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  it  was 
several  days  before  he  could  lift  his  distressed  eyes 
under  her  glance,  or,  indeed,  dare  to  avail  himself  of 
more  than  a  hasty  and  fluttering  stare  at  her  when 

her  back  was  turned.)     As  she  entered  the  room*,  he 

819 


320  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

sidled  along  the  wall  and  laughed  sheeoishly  at  noth 
ing. 

Every  ch.^ir  in  the  room  was  ornamented  with  one 
of  his  blue  rosettes,  tied  carefully  (and  firmly)  to  the 
middle  slat  of  each  chair-back.  There  had  been 
several  yards  of  ribbon  left  over,  and  there  was  a 
hard  knot  of  glossy  satin  on  each  of  the  ink-stands 
and  on  the  door-knobs;  a  blue  band,  passing  around 
the  stovepipe,  imparted  an  antique  rakishness  sug 
gestive  of  the  charioteer;  and  a  number  of  streamers, 
suspended  from  a  hook  in  the  ceiling,  encouraged  a 
supposition  that  the  employees  of  the  "Herald" 
contemplated  the  intricate  festivities  of  May  Day. 
It  needed  no  genius  to  infer  that  these  garnitures 
had  not  embellished  the  editorial  chamber  during 
Mr.  Harkless's  activity,  but,  on  the  contrary,  had 
been  put  in  place  that  very  morning.  Mr.  Fisbee 
had  not  known  of  the  decorations,  and,  as  his  glance 
fell  upon  them,  a  faint  look  of  pain  passed  over  his 
brow;  but  the  girl  examined  the  room  with  a  danc 
ing  eye,  and  there  were  both  tears  and  laughter  in 
her  heart. 

"How  beautiful!"  she  cried.  "How  beautiful!" 
She  crossed  the  room  and  gave  her  hand  to  Ross. 
"It  is  Mr.  Schofield,  isn't  it?  The  ribbons  are  de- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  321 

lightful.  I  didn't  know  Mr.  Harkless's  room  was 
so  pretty." 

Ross  looked  out  of  the  window  and  laughed  as  he 
took  her  hand  (which  he  shook  with  a  long  up  and 
down  motion),  but  he  was  set  at  better  ease  by  her 
apparent  unrecognition  of  the  fact  that  the  decora 
tions  were  for  her.  "Oh,  it  ain't  much,  I  reckon," 
he  replied,  and  continued  to  look  out  of  the  window 
and  laugh. 

She  went  to  the  desk  and  removed  her  gloves  and 
laid  her  rain-coat  over  a  chair  near  by.  "Is  this 
Mr.  Harkless's  chair?"  she  asked,  and,  Fisbee  an 
swering  that  it  was,  she  looked  gravely  at  it  for  a 
moment,  passed  her  hand  gently  over  the  back  of  it, 
and  then,  throwing  the  rain-cloak  over  another 
chair,  said  cheerily: 

"Do  you  know,  I  think  the  first  thing  for  us  to 
do  will  be  to  dust  everything  very  carefully." 

"You  remember  I  was  confident  she  would  know 
precisely  where  to  begin?"  was  Fisbee's  earnest 
whisper  in  the  willing  ear  of  the  long  foreman.  "Not 
an  instant's  indecision,  was  there?" 

"No,  siree!"  replied  the  other;  and,  as  he  went 
down  to  the  press-room  to  hunt  for  a  feather-duster 
which  he  thought  might  be  found  there,  he  collared 


322  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Bud  Tipworthy,  who,  not  admitted  to  the  conclave 
of  his  superiors,  was  whistling  on  the  rainy  stairway. 
"You  hustle  and  find  that  dust  brush  we  used  to 
have,  Bud,"  said  Parker.  And  presently,  as  they 
rummaged  in  the  nooks  and  crannies  about  the  ma 
chinery,  he  melted  to  his  small  assistant.  "The 
paper  is  saved,  Buddie — saved  by  an  angel  in  light 
brown.  You  can  tell  it  by  the  look  of  her." 
;  "Gee!"  said  Bud. 

Mr.  Schofield  had  come,  blushing,  to  join  them. 
"Say,  Cale,  did  you  notice  the  color  of  her  eyes?" 

"Yes;    they're    gray." 

"I  thought  so,  too,  show  day,  and  at  Kedge  Hal 
lo  way's  lecture;  but,  say,  Cale,  they're  kind  of 
changeable.  When  she  come  in  upstairs  with  you 
and  Fisbee,  they  were  jest  as  blue! — near  matched 
the  color  of  our  ribbons." 

"Gee!"  repeated  Mr.   Tipworthy. 

When  the  editorial  chamber  had  been  made  so 
neat  that  it  almost  glowed — though  it  could  never 
be  expected  to  shine  as  did  Fisbee  and  Caleb  Parker 
and  Ross  Schofield  that  morning — the  editor  took 
her  seat  at  the  desk  and  looked  over  the  few  items 
the  gentlemen  had  already  compiled  for  her  perusal. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   323 

Mr.  Parker  explained  many  technicalities  peculiar 
to  the  Carlow  "Herald,"  translated  some  phrases 
of  the  printing-room,  and  enabled  her  to  grasp  the 
amount  of  matter  needed  to  fill  the  morrow's  issue. 

When  Parker  finished,  the  three  incompetents  sat 
watching  the  little  figure  with  the  expression  of 
hopeful  and  trusting  terriers.  She  knit  her  brow 
for  a  second — but  she  did  not  betray  an  instant's 
indecision. 

"I  think  we  should  have  regular  market  reports," 
she  announced,  thoughtfully.  "I  am  sure  Mr. 
Harkless  would  approve.  Don't  you  think  he 
would?"  She  turned  to  Parker. 

"Market  reports!"  Mr.  Fisbee  exclaimed.  "I 
should  never  have  thought  of  market  reports,  nor, 
do  I  imagine,  would  either  of  my — my  associates. 
A  woman  to  conceive  the  idea  of  market  reports!" 

The  editor  blushed.  "Why,  who  would,  dear,  if 
not  a  woman,  or  a  speculator,  and  I'm  not  a  specula 
tor;  and  neither  are  you,  and  that's  the  reason  you 
didn't  think  of  them.  So,  Mr.  Parker,  as  there  is 
so  much  pressure,  and  if  you  don't  mind  continuing 
to  act  as  reporter  as  well  as  compositor  until  after  to 
morrow,  and  if  it  isn't  too  wet — you  must  take  an 
umbrella — would  it  be  too  much  bother  if  you  went 


324  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

around  to  all  the  shops — stores,  I  mean —  to  all  the 
grocers',  and  the  butchers',  and  that  leather  place  we 
passed,  the  tannery? — and  if  there's  one  of  those 
places  where  they  bring  cows,  would  it  be  too  much 
to  ask  you  to  stop  there? — and  at  the  flour-mill,  if 
it  isn't  too  far? — and  at  the  dry -goods  store?  And 
you  must  take  a  blank-book  and  sharpened  penciL 
And  will  you  price  everything,  please,  and  jot  dowr. 
how  much  things  are?" 

Orders  received,  the  impetuous  Parker  was  de 
parting  on  the  instant,  when  she  stopped  him  with 
a  little  cry:  "But  you  haven't  any  umbrella!"  And 
she  forced  her  own,  a  slender  wand,  upon  him;  it 
bore  a  cunningly  wrought  handle  and  its  fabric  was 
of  glistening  -silk.  The  foreman,  unable  to  decline 
it,  thanked  her  awkwardly,  and,  as  she  turned  to 
speak  to  Fisbee,  bolted  out  of  the  door  and  ran 
down  the  steps  without  unfolding  the  umbrella;  and, 
as  he  made  for  Mr.  Martin's  emporium,  he  buttoned 
it  securely  under  his  long  "Prince  Albert,"  deter 
mined  that  not  a  drop  of  water  should  touch  and 
ruin  so  delicate  a  thing.  Thus  he  carried  it,  tri 
umphantly  dry,  through  the  course  of  his  reportings 
of  that  day. 

When  he  had  gone  the  editor  laid  her  hand  on 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  325 

Fisbee's  arm.  "Dear,"  she  said,  "do  you  think 
you  would  take  cold  if  you  went  over  to  the  hotel 
and  made  a  note  of  all  the  arrivals  for  the  last  week 
— and  the  departures,  too?  I  noticed  that  Mr. 
Harkless  always  filled  two  or  three — sticks,  isn't  it? 
—with  them  and  things  about  them,  and  somehow 
it  'read'  very  nicely.  You  must  ask  the  landlord 
all  about  them;  and,  if  there  aren't  any,  we  can  take 
up  the  same  amount  of  space  lamenting  the  dull 
times,  just  as  he  used  to.  You  see  I've  read  the 
'Herald'  faithfully;  isn't  it  a  good  thing  I  always 
subscribed  for  it?"  She  patted  Fisbee's  cheek,  and 
laughed  gaily  into  his  mild,  vague  old  eyes. 

"It  won't  be  this  scramble  to  'fill  up'  much  longer. 
I  have  plans,  gentlemen,"  she  cried,  "and  before 
long  we  will  print  news.  And  we  must  buy  'plate 
matter'  instead  of  'patent  insides';  and  I  had  a  talk 
with  the  Associated  Press  people  in  Rouen — but 
that's  for  afterwhile.  And  I  went  to  the  hospital 
this  morning  before  I  left.  They  wouldn't  let  me  see 
him  again,  but  they  told  me  all  about  him,  and  he's 
better;  and  I  got  Tom  to  go  to  the  jail — he  was  so 
mystified,  he  doesn't  know  what  I  wanted  it  for — and 
he  saw  some  of  those  beasts,  and  I  can  do  a  column 
of  description  besides  an  editorial  about  them,  and 


326  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

I  will  be  fierce  enough  to  suit  Carlow,  you  may  be 
lieve  that.  And  I've  been  talking  to  Senator  Burns 
— that  is,  listening  to  Senator  Burns,  which  is  much 
stupider — and  I  think  I  can  do  an  article  on  national 
politics.  I'm  not  very  well  up  on  local  issues  yet,  but 
I—"  She  broke  off  suddenly.  "There!  I  think  we 
can  get  out  to-morrow's  number  without  any  trouble. 
By  the  time  you  get  back  from  the  hotel,  father,  I'll 
have  half  my  stuff  written — 'written  up,'  I  mean. 
Take  your  big  umbrella  and  go,  dear,  and  please 
ask  at  the  express  office  if  my  typewriter  has 
come." 

She  laughed  again  with  sheer  delight,  like  a  child, 
and  ran  to  the  corner  and  got  the  cotton  umbrella  and 
placed  it  in  the  old  man's  hand.  As  he  reached  the 
door,  she  called  after  him:  "Wait!"  and  went  to  him 
and  knelt  before  him,  and,  with  the  humblest,  proud 
est  grace  in  the  world,  turned  up  his  trousers  to  keep 
them  from  the  mud.  Ross  Schofield  had  never  con 
sidered  Mr.  Fisbee  a  particularly  sacred  sort  of  per 
son,  but  he  did  from  that  moment.  The  old  man 
made  some  timid  protest,  at  his  daughter's  action, 
but  she  answered:  "The  great  ladies  used  to  buckle 
the  Chevalier  Bayard's  spurs  for  him,  and  you're  a 
great  deal  nicer  than  the  Chev —  You  haven't  any 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  327 

rubbers!  I  don't  believe  any  of  you  have  any  rub 
bers!"  And  not  until  both  Fisbee  and  Mr.  Scho- 
field  had  promised  to  purchase  overshoes  at  once, 
and  in  the  meantime  not  to  step  in  any  puddles, 
would  she  let  her  father  depart  upon  his  errand.  He 
crossed  the  Square  with  the  strangest,  jauntiest  step 
ever  seen  in  Plattville.  Solomon  Tibbs  had  a  warm 
argument  with  Miss  Selina  as  to  his  identity,  Miss 
Selina  maintaining  that  the  figure  under  the  big  um 
brella — only  the  legs  and  coat-tails  were  visible  to 
them — was  that  of  a  stranger,  probably  an  English 
man. 

In  the  "Herald"  office  the  editor  turned,  smiling, 
to  the  paper's  remaining  vassal.  "Mr.  Schofield,  I 
heard  some  talk  in  Rouen  of  an  oil  company  that 
had  been  formed  to  prospect  for  kerosene  in  Carlow 
County.  Do  you  know  anything  about  it?" 

Ross,  surfeited  with  honor,  terror,  and  possessed 
by  a  sweet  distress  at  finding  himself  tete-a-tete  with 
the  lady,  looked  at  the  wall  and  replied: 

"Oh,  it's  that  Eph  Watts's  foolishness." 

"Do  you  know  if  they  have  begun  to  dig  for  it 
yet?" 

"Ma'am?"  said  Ross. 

"Have  they  begun  the  diggings  yet?" 


328  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"No,  ma'am;  I  think  not.  They've  got  a  con- 
trapshun  fixed  up  about  three  mile  south.  I  don't 
reckon  they've  begun  yet,  hardly;  they're  gittin'  the 
machinery  in  place.  I  heard  Eph  say  they'd  begin 
to  bore — dig,  I  mean,  ma'am,  I  meant  to  say  dig — 
He  stopped,  utterly  confused  and  unhappy;  and  she 
understood  his  manly  purpose,  and  knew  him  for 
a  gentleman  whom  she  liked. 

"You  mustn't  be  too  much  surprised,"  she  said; 
"but  in  spite  of  my  ignorance  about  such  things,  I 
mean  to  devote  a  good  deal  of  space  to  the  oil  com 
pany;  it  may  come  to  be  of  great  importance  to  Car- 
low.  We  won't  go  into  it  in  to-morrow's  paper,  be 
yond  an  item  or  so;  but  do  you  think  you  could  pos 
sibly  find  Mr.  Watts  and  ask  him  for  some  informa 
tion  as  to  their  progress,  and  if  it  would  be  too  much 
trouble  for  him  to  call  here  sone  time  to-morrow 
afternoon,  or  the  day  after?  I  want  him  to  give 
me  an  interview  if  he  will.  Tell  him,  please,  he  will 
very  greatly  oblige  us." 

"Oh,  he'll  come  all  right,"  answered  her  com 
panion,  quickly.  "I'll  take  Tibbs's  buggy  and  go 
down  there  right  off.  Eph  won't  lose  no  time  git- 
tin*  here!"  And  with  this  encouraging  assurance 
he  was  flying  forth,  when  he,  like  the  others,  was 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  329 

detained  by  her  solicitous  care.  She  was  a  born 
mother.  He  protested  that  in  the  buggy  he  would 
be  perfectly  sheltered;  besides,  there  wasn't  another 
umbrella  about  the  place;  he  liked  to  get  wet,  any 
way;  had  always  loved  rain.  The  end  of  it  was  that 
he  went  away  in  a  sort  of  tremor,  wearing  her  rain- 
cloak  over  his  shoulders,  which  garment,  as  it  cov 
ered  its  owner  completely  when  she  wore  it,  hung 
almost  to  his  knees.  He  darted  around  a  corner; 
and  there,  breathing  deeply,  tenderly  removed  it; 
then,  borrowing  paper  and  cord  at  a  neighboring 
store,  wrapped  it  neatly,  and  stole  back  to  the  print 
ing-office  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  "Herald"  build 
ing,  and  left  the  package  in  charge  of  Bud  Tip- 
worthy,  mysteriously  charging  him  to  care  for  it  as 
for  his  own  life,  and  not  to  open  it,  but  if  the  lady  so 
much  as  set  one  foot  out  of  doors  before  his  return, 
to  hand  it  to  her  with  the  message:  "He  borrowed 
another  off  J.  Hankins." 

Left  alone,  the  lady  went  to  the  desk  and  stood  for 
a  time  looking  gravely  at  Harkless's  chair.  She 
touched  it  gently,  as  she  had  touched  it  once  before 
that  morning,  and  then  she  spoke  to  it  as  if  he  were 
sitting  there,  and  as  she  would  not  have  spoken,  had 
he  been  sitting  there. 


330  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"You  didn't  want  gratitude,  did  you?"  she  whis 
pered,  with  sad  lips. 

Soon  she  smiled  at  the  blue  ribbons,  patted  the 
chair  gaily  on  the  back,  and,  seizing  upon  pencil  and 
pad,  dashed  into  her  work  with  rare  energy.  She 
bent  low  over  the  desk,  her  pencil  moving  rapidly, 
and,  except  for  a  momentary  interruption  from  Mr. 
Tip  worthy,  she  seemed  not  to  pause  for  breath;  cer 
tainly  her  pencil  did  not.  She  had  covered  many 
sheets  when  her  father  returned;  and,  as  he  came  in 
softly,  not  to  disturb  her,  she  was  so  deeply  en 
grossed  she  did  not  hear  him;  nor  did  she  look  up 
when  Parker  entered,  but  pursued  the  formulation 
of  her  fast-flying  ideas  with  the  same  single  purpose 
and  abandon;  so  the  two  men  sat  and  waited  while 
their  chieftainess  wrote  absorbedly.  At  last  she 
glanced  up  and  made  a  little  startled  exclamation  at 
seeing  them  there,  and  then  gave  them  cheery  greet 
ing.  Each  placed  several  scribbled  sheets  before 
her,  and  she,  having  first  assured  herself  that  Fisbee 
had  bought  his  overshoes,  and  having  expressed  a 
fear  that  Mr.  Parker  had  found  her  umbrella  too 
small,  as  he  looked  damp  (and  indeed  he  was  damp), 
cried  praises  on  their  notes  and  offered  the  reporters 
great  applause. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  331 

"It  is  all  so  splendid!"  she  cried.  "How  could 
you  do  it  so  quickly?  And  in  the  rain,  too!  This  is 
exactly  what  we  need.  I've  done  most  of  the  things 
I  mentioned,  I  think,  and  made  a  draught  of  some 
plans  for  hereafter.  And  about  that  man's  coming 
out  for  Congress,  I  must  tell  you  it  is  my  greatest 
hope  that  he  will.  We  can  let  it  go  until  he  does, 
and  then —  But  doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that  it  would 
be  a  good  notion  for  the  'Herald'  to  have  a  woman's 
page — 'For  Feminine  Readers/  or,  'Of  Interest  to 
Women' — once  a  week?" 

"A  woman's  page!"  exclaimed  Fisbee.  "I  could 
never  have  thought  of  that,  could  you,  Mr.  Parker?" 

"And  now,"  she  continued,  "I  think  that  when 
I've  gone  over  what  I've  written  and  beat  it  into 
better  shape  I  shall  be  ready  for  something  to  eat. 
Isn't  it  almost  time  for  luncheon?" 

This  simple,  and  surely  natural,  inquiry  had  a  sin 
gular,  devastating  effect  upon  her  hearers.  They 
looked  upon  each  other  with  fallen  jaws  and  com 
plete  stupefaction.  The  old  man  began  to  grow 
pale,  and  Parker  glared  about  him  with  a  wild  eye. 
Fortunately,  the  editor  was  too  busy  at  her  work  to 
notice  their  agitation;  she  applied  herself  to  making 
alterations  here  and  there,  sometimes  frowningly 


332  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

crossing  out  whole  lines  and  even  paragraphs,  some 
times  smiling  and  beaming  at  the  writing;  and,  as 
she  bent  earnestly  over  the  paper,  against  the  dark 
ness  of  the  rainy  day,  the  glamour  about  her  fair  hair 
was  like  a  light  in  the  room.  To  the  minds  of  her 
two  companions,  this  lustre  was  a  gentle  but  unbear 
able  accusation;  and  each  dreaded  the  moment  when 
her  work  should  be  finished,  with  a  great  dread. 
There  was  a  small  "store-room"  adjoining  the  of 
fice,  and  presently  Mr.  Parker,  sweating  at  the  brow, 
walked  in  there.  The  old  man  gave  him  a  look  of 
despairing  reproach,  but  in  a  moment  the  foreman's 
voice  was  heard:  "Oh,  Mr.  Fisbee,  can  you  step 
here  a  second?" 

"Yes,  indeed!"  was  Fisbee's  reply;  and  he  fled 
guiltily  into  the  "store-room,"  and  Parker  closed 
the  door.  They  stood  knee-deep  in  the  clutter  and 
lumber,  facing  each  other  abjectly. 

"Well,  we're  both  done,  anyway,  Mr.  Fisbee," 
remarked  the  foreman. 

"Indubitably,  Mr.  Parker,"  the  old  man  an 
swered;  "it  is  too  true." 

"Never  to  think  a  blame  thing  about  dinner  for 
her!"  Parker  continued,  remorsefully.  "And  her  a 
lady  that  can  turn  off  copy  like  a  rotary  snow- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  333 

plough  in  a  Dakota  blizzard!  Did  you  see  the 
sheets  she's  piled  up  on  that  desk?" 

"There  is  no  cafe — nothing — in  Plattville,  that 
could  prepare  food  worthy  of  her,"  groaned  Fisbee. 
"Nothing!" 

"And  we  never  thought  of  it.  Never  made  a 
single  arrangement.  Never  struck  us  she  didn't 
live  on  keeping  us  dry  and  being  good,  I  guess." 

"How  can  I  go  there  and  tell  her  that?" 

"Lord!" 

"She  cannot  go   to  the  hotel 

"Well,  I  guess  not!  It  ain't  fit  for  her.  Lum's 
table  is  hard  enough  on  a  strong  man.  Landis 
doesn't  know  a  good  cake  from  a  Fiji  missionary 
pudding.  I  don't  expect  pie  is  much  her  style,  and, 
besides,  the  Palace  Hotel  pies — well! — the  boss  was 
a  mighty  uncomplaining  man,  but  I  used  to  notice 
his  articles  on  field  drainage  got  kind  of  sour  and 
low-spirited  when  they'd  been  having  more  than  the 
regular  allowance  of  pie  for  dinner.  She  can't  go 
there  anyway;  it's  no  use;  it's  after  two  o'clock,  and 
the  dining-room  shuts  off  at  one.  I  wonder  what 
kind  of  cake  she  likes  best." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  perplexed  Fisbee.  "If 
we  ask  her " 


334  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"If  we  could  sort  of  get  it  out  of  her  diplomati 
cally,  we  could  telegraph  to  Rouen  for  a  good  one.': 

"Ha!"  said  the  other,  brightening  up.  "You 
try  it,  Mr.  Parker.  I  fear  I  have  not  much  skill  in 
diplomacy,  but  if  you ' 

The  compositor's  mouth  drooped  at  the  corners, 
and  he  interrupted  gloomily:  "But  it  wouldn't  get 
here  till  to-morrow." 

"True;   it   would   not." 

They  fell  into  a  despondent  reverie,  with  their 
chins  in  their  bosoms.  There  came  a  cheerful  voice 
from  the  next  room,  but  to  them  it  brought  no 
cheer;  in  their  ears  it  sounded  weak  from  the  need 
of  food  and  faint  with  piteous  reproach. 

"Father,  aren't  you  coming  to  have  luncheon 
with  me?" 

"Mr.  Parker,  what  are  we  to  do?"  whispered  the 
old  man,  hoarsely. 

"Is  it  too  far  to  take  her  to  Briscoes'?" 

"In  the  rain?" 

"Take  her  with  you  to  Tibbs's." 

"Their  noon  meal  is  long  since  over;  and  their 
larder  is  not — is  not — extensive." 

"Father!"  called  the  girl.  She  was  stirring;  they 
could  hear  her  moving  about  the  room. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  335 

"You've  got  to  go  in  and  tell  her,"  said  the  fore 
man,  desperately,  and  together  they  stumbled  into 
the  room.  A  small  table  at  one  end  of  it  was  laid 
with  a  snowy  cloth  and  there  was  a  fragrance  of  tea, 
and,  amidst  various  dainties,  one  caught  a  glimpse 
of  cold  chicken  and  lettuce  leaves.  Fisbee  stopped, 
dumfounded,  but  the  foreman,  after  stammeringly 
declining  an  invitation  to  partake,  alleging  that  his 
own  meal  awaited,  sped  down  to  the  printing-room, 
and  seized  upon  Bud  Tipworthy  with  a  heavy  hand. 

"Where  did  all  that  come  from,  up  there?" 

"Leave  go  me!     What  'all  that'?" 

"All  that  tea  and  chicken  and  salad  and  wafers — 
all  kinds  of  things;  sardines,  for  all  I  know!" 

"They  come  in  Briscoes'  buckboard  while  you 
was  gone.  Briscoes  sent  'em  in  a  basket;  I  took 
'em  up  and  she  set  the  basket  under  the  table. 
You'd  seen  it  if  you'd 'a' looked.  Quit  that!"  And 
it  was  unjust  to  cuff  the  perfectly  innocent  and  mys 
tified  Bud,  and  worse  not  to  tell  him  what  the  punish 
ment  was  for. 

Before  the  day  was  over,  system  had  been  intro 
duced,  and  the  "Herald"  was  running  on  it:  and 
all  that  warm,  rainy  afternoon,  the  editor  and  Fisbee 
worked  in  the  editorial  rooms,  Parker  and  Bud 


336  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  Mr.  Schofield  (after  his  return  with  the  items 
and  a  courteous  message  from  Ephraim  Watts) 
bent  over  the  forms  downstairs,  and  Uncle  Xeno- 
phon  was  cleaning  the  store-room  and  scrubbing 
the  floor. 

An  extraordinary  number  of  errands  took  the 
various  members  of  the  printing  force  up  to  see  the 
editor-in-chief,  literally  to  see  the  editor-in-chief;  it 
was  hard  to  believe  that  the  presence  had  not  flown 
— hard  to  keep  believing,  without  the  repeated  tes 
timony  of  sight,  that  the  dingy  room  upstairs  was 
actually  the  setting  for  their  jewel;  and  a  jewel 
they  swore  she  was.  The  printers  came  down 
chuckling  and  gurgling  after  each  interview;  it  was 
partly  the  thought  that  she  belonged  to  the  "Herald," 
their  paper.  Once  Ross,  as  he  cut  down  one  of 
the  temporarily  distended  advertisements,  looked  up 
and  caught  the  foreman  giggling  to  himself. 

"What  in  the  name  of  common-sense  you  laugh- 
in'  at,  Cale?"  he  asked. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  rejoined  the  other. 

"I  dunno!" 

The  day  wore  on,  wet  and  dreary  outside,  but 
all  within  the  "Herald's"  bosom  was  snug  and 
busy  and  murmurous  with  the  healthy  thrum  of 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  337 

life  and  prosperity  renewed.  Toward  six  o'clock, 
system  accomplished,  the  new  guiding-spirit  was 
deliberating  on  a  policy  as  Harkless  would  conceive 
a  policy,  were  he  there,  when  Minnie  Briscoe  ran 
joyously  up  the  stairs,  plunged  into  the  room,  water 
proofed  and  radiant,  and  caught  her  friend  in  her 
eager  arms,  and  put  an  end  to  policy  for  that  day. 
But  policy  and  labor  did  not  end  at  twilight 
every  day;  there  were  evenings,  as  in  the  time  of 
Harkless,  when  lamps  shone  from  the  upper  windows 
of  the  "Herald"  building.  For  the  little  editor 
worked  hard,  and  sometimes  she  worked  late;  she 
always  worked  early.  She  made  some  mistakes  at 
first,  and  one  or  two  blunders  which  she  took  more 
seriously  than  any  one  else  did.  But  she  found  a 
remedy  for  all  such  results  of  her  inexperience,  and 
she  developed  experience.  She  set  at  her  task  with 
the  energy  of  her  youthfulness  and  no  limit  to  her 
ambition,  and  she  felt  that  Harkless  had  prepared 
the  way  for  a  wide  expansion  of  the  paper's  interests; 
wider  than  he  knew.  She  had  a  belief  that  there 
were  possibilities  for  a  country  newspaper,  and  she 
brought  a  fresh  point  of  view  to  operate  in  a  situa 
tion  where  Harkless  had  fallen,  perhaps,  too  much 
in  the  rut;  and  she  watched  every  chance  with  a 


338  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

keen  eye  and  looked  ahead  of  her  with  clear  fore 
sight.  What  she  waited  and  yearned  for  and  dreaded, 
was  the  time  when  a  copy  of  the  new  "Herald" 
should  be  placed  in  the  trembling  hands  of  the  man 
who  lay  in  the  Rouen  hospital.  Then,  she  felt, 
if  he,  unaware  of  her  identity,  should  place  every 
thing  in  her  hands  unreservedly,  that  would  be  a 
tribute  to  her  work — and  how  hard  she  would  labor 
to  deserve  it!  After  a  time,  she  began  to  realize 
that,  as  his  representative  and  the  editor  of  the 
"Herald,"  she  had  become  a  factor  in  district 
politics.  It  took  her  breath — but  with  a  gasp  of 
delight,  for  there  was  something  she  wanted  to  do. 
Above  all,  she  brought  a  light  heart  to  her  work. 
One  evening  in  the  latter  part  of  that  first  week  of 
the  new  regime,  Parker  perceived  Bud  Tipworthy 
standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  printing-room, 
beckoning  him  silently  to  come  without. 
"What's  the  matter,  Buddie?" 
"Listen.  She's  singin'  over  her  work." 
Parker  stepped  outside.  On  the  pavement,  people 
had  stopped  to  listen;  they  stood  in  the  shadow, 
looking  up  with  parted  lips  at  the  open,  lighted 
windows,  whence  came  a  clear,  soft,  reaching  voice, 
lifted  in  song;  now  it  swelled  louder,  unconsciously; 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   339 

now  its  volume  was  more  slender  and  it  melted 
liquidly  into  the  night;  again,  it  trembled  and  rose 
and  dwelt  in  the  ear,  strong  and  pure;  and,  hearing 
it,  you  sighed  with  unknown  longings.  It  was  the 
"Angels'  Serenade." 

Bud  Tipworthy's  sister,  Cynthia,  was  with  him, 
and  Parker  saw  that  she  turned  from  the  window 
and  that  she  was  crying,  quietly;  she  put  her  hand 
on  the  boy's  shoulder  and  patted  it  with  a  forlorn 
gesture  which,  to  the  foreman's  eye,  was  as  graceful 
as  it  was  sad.  He  moved  closer  to  Bud  and  his  big 
hand  fell  on  Cynthia's  brother's  other  shoulder,  as 
he  realized  that  red  hair  could  look  pretty  some 
times;  and  he  wondered  why  the  editor's  singing 
made  Cynthy  cry;  and  at  the  same  time  he  decided 
to  be  mighty  good  to  Bud  henceforth.  The  spell  of 
night  and  song  was  on  him;  that  and  something 
more;  for  it  is  a  strange,  inexplicable  fact  that  the 
most  practical  chief  ever  known  to  the  "Herald" 
had  a  singularly  sentimental  influence  over  her  sub 
ordinates,  from  the  moment  of  her  arrival.  Under 
Harkless's  domination  there  had  been  no  more 
steadfast  bachelors  in  Carlow  than  Ross  Schofield 
and  Caleb  Parker,  and,  like  timorous  youths  in  a 
graveyard,  daring  and  mocking  the  ghosts  in  order 


340  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

to  assuage  their  own  fears,  they  had  so  jibed  and 
jeered  at  the  married  state  that  there  was  talk  of 
urging  the  minister  to  preach  at  them;  but  now  let 
it  be  recorded  that  at  the  moment  Caleb  laid  his 
hand  on  Bud's  other  shoulder,  his  associate,  Mr. 
Schofield,  was  enjoying  a  walk  in  the  far  end  of 
town  with  a  widow,  and  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  that 
Mr.  Tipworthy's  heart,  also,  was  no  longer  in  his 
possession,  though,  as  it  was  after  eight  o'clock,  the 
damsel  of  his  desire  had  probably  long  since  retired 
to  her  couch. 

For  some  faint  light  on  the  cause  of  these  spells, 
we  must  turn  to  a  comment  made  by  the  invaluable 
Mr.  Martin  some  time  afterward.  Referring  to  the 
lady  to  whose  voice  he  was  now  listening  in  silence 
(which  shows  how  great  the  enthralling  of  her  voice 
was),  he  said:  "When  you  saw  her,  or  heard  her,  or 
managed  to  be  around,  any,  where  she  was,  why,  if 
you  couldn't  git  up  no  hope  of  marryin'  her,  you 
wanted  to  marry  somebody" 

Mr.  Lige  "Willetts,  riding  idly  by,  drew  rein  in 
front  of  the  lighted  windows,  and  listened  with  the 
others.  Presently  he  leaned  from  his  horse  and 
whispered  to  a  man  near  him: 

"I  know  that  song." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  341 

"Do  you?"  whispered  the  other. 

"Yes;  he  and  I  heard  her  sing  it,  the  night  he  was 
shot." 

"So!" 

"Yes,  sir.     It's  by  Beethoven." 

"Is  it?" 

"It's  a  seraphic  song,"  continued  Lige. 

"No!"  exclaimed  his  friend;  then,  shaking  his 
head,  he  sighed:  "Well,  it's  mighty  sweet." 

The  song  was  suddenly  woven  into  laughter  in 
the  unseen  chamber,  and  the  lights  in  the  windows 
went  out,  and  a  small  lady  and  a  tall  lady  and  a  thin 
old  man,  all  three  laughing  and  talking  happily, 
came  down  and  drove  off  in  the  Briscoe  buckboard. 
The  little  crowd  dispersed  quietly;  Lige  Willetts 
?lucked  to  his  horse  and  cantered  away  to  overtake 
the  buckboard;  William  Todd  took  his  courage 
between  his  teeth,  and,  the  song  ringing  in  his  ears, 
made  a  desperate  resolve  to  call  upon  Miss  Bard- 
lock  that  evening,  in  spite  of  its  being  a  week  day, 
and  Caleb  Parker  gently  and  stammeringly  asked 
Cynthia  if  she  would  wait  till  he  shut  up  the  shop, 
and  let  him  walk  home  with  her  and  Bud. 

Soon  the  Square  was  quiet  as  before,  and  there 
was  naught  but  peace  under  the  big  stars  of  July. 


342  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

That  day  the  news  had  come  that  Harkless,  after 
weeks  of  alternate  improvement  and  relapse,  haz 
ardously  lingering  in  the  borderland  of  shadows, 
had  passed  the  crucial  point  and  was  convalescent. 
His  recovery  was  assured.  But  from  their  first 
word  of  him,  from  the  message  that  he  was  found 
and  was  alive,  none  of  the  people  of  Carlow  had 
really  doubted  it.  They  are  simple  country  people, 
and  they  know  that  God  is  good. 


CHAPTER  XV 

NETTLES 

TWO  men  who  have  been  comrades  and  class 
mates  at  the  Alma  Mater  of  John  Harkless 
and  Tom  Meredith;  two  who  have  belonged 
to  the  same  club  and  roomed  in  the  same  entry; 
who  have  pooled  their  clothes  and  money  in  a  com 
mon  stock  for  either  to  draw  on;  who  have  shared 
the  fortunes  of  athletic  war,  triumphing  together, 
sometimes  with  an  intense  triumphancy;  two  men 
who  were  once  boys  getting  hazed  together,  hazing  in 
no  unkindly  fashion  in  their  turn,  always  helping 
each  other  to  stuff  brains  the  night  before  an  exam 
ination  and  to  blow  away  the  suffocating  statistics 
like  foam  the  night  after;  singing,  wrestling,  dancing, 
laughing,  succeeding  together,  through  the  four 
kindest  years  of  life;  two  such  brave  companions, 
meeting  in  the  after  years,  are  touchingly  tender  and 
caressive  of  each  other,  but  the  tenderness  takes  the 
shy,  United  States  form  of  insulting  epithets,  and 

the  caresses  are  blows.     If  John  Harkless  had  been 

343 


344  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

in  health,  uninjured  and  prosperous,  Tom  Meredith 
could  no  more  have  thrown  himself  on  his  knees 
beside  him  and  called  him  "old  friend"  than  he 
could  have  danced  on  the  slack-wire. 

One  day  they  thought  the  patient  sleeping;  the 
nurse  fanned  him  softly,  and  Meredith  had  stolen  in 
and  was  sitting  by  the  cot.  One  of  Harkless's  eyes 
had  been  freed  of  the  bandage,  and,  when  Tom  came 
in,  it  was  closed;  but,  by  and  by,  Meredith  became 
aware  that  the  unbandaged  eye  had  opened  and  that 
it  was  suffused  with  a  pathetic  moisture;  yet  it 
twinkled  with  a  comprehending  light,  and  John 
knew  that  it  was  his  old  Tom  Meredith  who  was  sit 
ting  beside  him,  with  the  air  of  having  sat  there  very 
often  before.  But  this  bald,  middle-aged  young 
man,  not  without  elegance,  yet  a  prosperous  burgher 
for  all  that — was  this  the  slim,  rollicking  broth  of  a 
boy  whose  thick  auburn  hair  used  to  make  one 
streak  of  flame  as  he  spun  around  the  bases  on  a 
home  run?  Without  doubt  it  was  the  stupendous 
fact,  wrought  by  the  alchemy  of  seven  years. 

For,  though  seven  years  be  a  mere  breath  in  the 
memories  of  the  old,  it  is  a  long  transfiguration  to 
him  whose  first  youth  is  passing,  and  who  finds 
unsolicited  additions  accruing  to  some  parts  of  his 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  345 

being  and  strange  deprivations  in  others,  and  upon 
whom  the  unhappy  realization  begins  to  be  borne  in, 
that  his  is  no  particular  case,  and  that  he  of  all  the 
world  is  not  to  be  spared,  but,  like  his  forbears, 
must  inevitably  wriggle  in  the  disguising  crucible  of 
time.  And,  though  men  accept  it  with  apparently 
patient  humor,  the  first  realization  that  people  do 
grow  old,  and  that  they  do  it  before  they  have  had 
time  to  be  young,  is  apt  to  come  like  a  shock. 

Perhaps  not  even  in  the  interminable  months  of 
Carlow  had  Harkless  realized  the  length  of  seven 
years  so  keenly  as  he  did  when  he  beheld  his  old 
friend  at  his  bedside.  How  men  may  be  warped 
apart  in  seven  years,  especially  in  the  seven  years 
between  twenty-three  and  thirty!  At  the  latter  age 
you  may  return  to  the  inseparable  of  seven  years 
before  and  speak  not  the  same  language;  you  find 
no  heartiness  to  carry  on  with  each  other  after  hah* 
an  hour.  Not  so  these  classmates,  who  had  known 
each  other  to  the  bone. 

Ah,  yes,  it  was  Tom  Meredith,  the  same  lad,  in 
spite  of  his  masquerade  of  flesh;  and  Helen  was 
right:  Tom  had  not  forgotten. 

"It's  the  old  horse-thief!"  John  murmured,  tremu 
lously. 


346  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"You  go  plumb  to  thunder,"  answered  Meredith 
between  gulps. 

When  he  was  well  enough,  they  had  long  talks; 
and  at  other  times  Harkless  lay  by  the  window,  and 
breathed  deep  of  the  fresh  air,  while  Meredith 
attended  to  his  correspondence  for  him,  and  read  the 
papers  to  him.  But  there  was  one  phenomenon  of 
literature  the  convalescent  insisted  upon  observing 
for  himself,  and  which  he  went  over  again  and  again, 
to  the  detriment  of  his  single  unswathed  eye,  and 
this  was  the  Carlow  "Herald." 

The  first  letter  he  had  read  to  him  was  one  from 
Fisbee  stating  that  the  crippled  forces  left  in  charge 
had  found  themselves  almost  distraught  in  their 
efforts  to  carry  on  the  paper  (as  their  chief  might 
conclude  for  himself  on  perusal  of  the  issues  of  the 
first  fortnight  of  his  absence),  and  they  had  made 
bold  to  avail  themselves  of  the  services  of  a  young 
relative  of  the  writer's  from  a  distant  city — a 
capable  journalist,  who  had  no  other  employment 
for  the  present,  and  who  had  accepted  the  respon 
sibilities  of  the  "Herald"  temporarily.  There  fol 
lowed  a  note  from  Parker,  announcing  that  Mr. 
Fisbee's  relative  was  a  bird,  and  was  the  kind  to 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   347 

make  the  "Herald"  hum.  They  hoped  Mr.  Harkless 
would  approve  of  their  bespeaking  the  new  hand  on 
the  sheet;  the  paper  must  have  suspended  otherwise. 
Harkless,  almost  overcome  by  his  surprise  that 
Fisbee  possessed  a  relative,  dictated  a  hearty  and 
grateful  indorsement  of  their  action,  and,  soon  after, 
received  a  typewritten  rejoinder,  somewhat  com 
plicated  in  the  reading,  because  of  the  numerous 
type  errors  and  their  corrections.  The  missive  was 
signed  "H.  Fisbee,"  in  a  strapping  masculine  hand 
that  suggested  six  feet  of  enterprise  and  muscle 
spattering  ink  on  its  shirt  sleeves. 

John  groaned  and  fretted  over  the  writhings  of 
the  "Herald's"  headless  fortnight,  but,  perusing  the 
issues  produced  under  the  domination  of  H.  Fisbee, 
he  started  now  and  then,  and  chuckled  at  some 
shrewd  felicities  of  management,  or  stared,  puzzled, 
over  an  oddity,  but  came  to  a  feeling  of  vast  relief; 
and,  when  the  question  of  H.  Fisbee's  salary  was 
settled  and  the  tenancy  assured,  he  sank  into  a 
repose  of  mind.  H.  Fisbee  might  be  an  eccentric 
fellow,  but  he  knew  his  business,  and,  apparently, 
he  knew  something  of  other  business  as  well,  for 
he  wrote  at  length  concerning  the  Carlow  oil  fields, 
urging  Harkless  to  take  shares  in  Mr.  Watts's  com- 


348  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

pany  while  the  stock  was  very  low,  two  wells  having 
been  sunk  without  satisfactory  results.  H.  Fisbee 
explained  with  exceeding  technicality  his  reasons  for 
believing  that  the  third  well  would  strike  oil. 

But  with  his  ease  of  mind  regarding  the  "Herald," 
Harkless  found  himself  possessed  by  apathy.  He 
fretted  no  longer  to  get  back  to  Plattville.  With 
the  prospect  of  return  it  seemed  an  emptiness  glared 
at  him  from  hollow  sockets,  and  the  thought  of  the 
dreary  routine  he  must  follow  when  he  went  back 
gave  him  the  same  faint  nausea  he  had  felt  the  even 
ing  after  the  circus.  And,  though  it  was  partly  the 
long  sweat  of  anguish  which  had  benumbed  him,  his 
apathy  was  pierced,  at  times,  by  a  bodily  horror  of 
the  scene  of  his  struggle.  At  night  he  faced  the 
grotesque  masks  of  the  Cross-Roads  men  and  the 
brutal  odds  again;  over  and  over  he  felt  the  blows, 
and  clapped  his  hand  to  where  the  close  fire  of  Bob 
Skillett's  pistol  burned  his  body. 

And,  except  for  the  release  from  pain,  he  re 
joiced  less  and  less  in  his  recovery.  He  remem 
bered  a  tedious  sickness  of  his  childhood  and  how 
beautiful  he  had  thought  the  world,  when  he  began 
to  get  well,  how  electric  the  open  air  blowing  in 
at  the  window,  how  green  the  smile  of  earth,  and 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  349 

how  glorious  to  live  and  see  the  open  day  again. 
He  had  none  of  that  feeling  now.  No  pretty  vision 
came  again  near  his  bed,  and  he  beheld  his  con 
valescence  as  a  mistake.  He  had  come  to  a  jump- 
ing-off  place  in  his  life — why  had  they  not  let  him 
jump?  What  was  there  left  but  the  weary  plod, 
plod,  and  dust  of  years? 

He  could  have  gone  back  to  Carlow  in  better 
spirit  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  few  dazzling  hours 
of  companionship  which  had  transformed  it  to  a 
paradise,  but,  gone,  left  a  desert.  She,  by  the 
sight  of  her,  had  made  him  wish  to  live,  and  now, 
that  he  saw  her  no  more,  she  made  him  wish  to 
die.  How  little  she  had  cared  for  him,  since  she 
told  him  she  did  not  care,  when  he  had  not  meant 
to  ask  her.  He  was  weary,  and  at  last  he  longed 
to  find  the  line  of  least  resistance  and  follow  it; 
he  had  done  hard  things  for  a  long  time,  but  now 
he  wanted  to  do  something  easy.  Under  the  new 
genius — who  was  already  urging  that  the  paper 
should  be  made  a  daily — the  "Herald"  could  get 
along  without  him;  and  the  "White-Caps"  would 
bother  Carlow  no  longer;  and  he  thought  that  Kedge 
Halloway,  an  honest  man,  if  a  dull  one,  was  sure 
to  be  renominated  for  Congress  at  the  district  con- 


350  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

vention  which  was  to  meet  at  Plattville  in  Sep 
tember — these  were  his  responsibilities,  and  they 
did  not  fret  him.  Everything  was  all  right.  There 
was  only  one  thought  which  thrilled  him:  his  im 
pression  that  she  had  come  to  the  hospital  to  see 
him  was  not  a  delusion;  she  had  really  been  there 
— as  a  humane,  Christian  person,  he  said  to  him 
self.  One  day  he  told  Meredith  of  his  vision,  and 
Tom  explained  that  it  was  no  conjuration  of  fever. 

"But  I  thought  she'd  gone  abroad,"  said  Hark- 
less,  staring. 

"They  had  planned  to,"  answered  his  friend. 
"They  gave  it  up  for  some  reason.  Uncle  Henry 
decided  that  he  wasn't  strong  enough  for  the  trip, 
or  something." 

"Then — is  she — is  she  here?" 

"No;  Helen  is  never  here  in  summer.  When  she 
came  back  from  Plattville,  she  went  north,  some 
where,  to  join  people  she  had  promised,  I  think." 
Meredith  had  as  yet  no  inkling  or  suspicion  that  his 
adopted  cousin  had  returned  to  Plattville.  What 
he  told  Harkless  was  what  his  aunt  had  told  him, 
and  he  accepted  it  as  the  truth. 

Mrs.  Sherwood  (for  she  was  both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sherwood)  had  always  considered  Fisbee  an  enig- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   351 

matic  rascal,  and  she  regarded  Helen's  defection  to 
him  in  the  light  of  a  family  scandal  to  be  hushed 
up,  as  well  as  a  scalding  pain  to  be  borne.  Some 
day  the  unkind  girl-errant  would  "return  to  her 
wisdom  and  her  duty";  meanwhile,  the  less  known 
about  it  the  better. 

Meredith  talked  very  little  to  Harkless  of  his 
cousin,  beyond  lightly  commenting  on  the  pleasure 
and  oddity  of  their  meeting,  and  telling  him  of 
her  friendly  anxiety  about  his  recovery;  he  said 
she  had  perfect  confidence  from  the  first  that  he 
would  recover.  Harkless  had  said  a  word  or  two 
in  his  delirium  and  a  word  or  two  out  of  it,  and 
these,  with  once  a  sudden  brow  of  suffering,  and  a 
difference  Meredith  felt  in  Helen's  manner  when 
they  stood  together  by  the  sick  man's  bedside,  had 
given  the  young  man  a  strong  impression,  partly 
intuitive,  that  in  spite  of  the  short  time  the  two 
had  known  each  other,  something  had  happened 
between  them  at  Plattville,  and  he  ventured  a  guess 
which  was  not  far  from  the  truth.  Altogether, 
the  thing  was  fairly  plain — a  sad  lover  is  not  so 
hard  to  read — and  Meredith  was  sorry,  for  they 
were  the  two  people  he  liked  best  on  earth. 

The  young  man  carried  his  gay  presence  daily 


352  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

to  the  hospital,  where  Harkless  now  lay  in  a  pleasant 
room  of  his  own,  and  he  tried  to  keep  his  friend 
cheery,  which  was  an  easy  matter  on  the  surface, 
for  the  journalist  turned  ever  a  mask  of  jokes  upon 
him;  but  it  was  not  hard  for  one  who  liked  him  as 
Meredith  did  to  see  through  to  the  melancholy 
underneath.  After  his  one  reference  to  Helen,  John 
was  entirely  silent  of  her,  and  Meredith  came  to 
feel  that  both  would  be  embarrassed  if  occasion 
should  rise  and  even  her  name  again  be  mentioned 
between  them. 

He  did  not  speak  of  his  family  connection  with 
Mr.  Fisbee  to  the  invalid,  for,  although  the  connec 
tion  was  distant,  the  old  man  was,  in  a  way,  the 
family  skeleton,  and  Meredith  had  a  strong  sense 
of  the  decency  of  reserve  in  such  a  matter.  There 
was  one  thing  Fisbee's  shame  had  made  the  old 
man  unable  not  to  suppress  when  he  told  Parker 
his  story;  the  wraith  of  a  torrid  palate  had  pursued 
him  from  his  youth,  and  the  days  of  drink  and 
despair  from  which  Harkless  had  saved  him  were 
not  the  first  in  his  life.  Meredith  wondered  as 
much  as  did  Harkless  where  Fisbee  had  picked 
up  the  journalistic  "young  relative"  who  signed 
his  extremely  business-like  missives  in  such  a 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  353 

thundering  hand.  It  was  evident  that  the  old  man 
was  grateful  to  his  patron,  but  it  did  not  occur 
to  Meredith  that  Fisbee's  daughter  might  have  an 
even  stronger  sense  of  gratitude,  one  so  strong 
that  she  could  give  all  her  young  strength  to  work 
for  the  man  who  had  been  good  to  her  father. 

There  came  a  day  in  August  when  Meredith  took 
the  convalescent  from  the  hospital  in  a  victoria, 
and  installed  him  in  his  own  home.  Harkless's 
clothes  hung  on  his  big  frame  limply;  however, 
there  was  a  drift  of  light  in  his  eyes  as  they  drove 
slowly  through  the  pretty  streets  of  Rouen.  The 
bandages  and  splints  and  drugs  and  swathings  were 
all  gone  now,  and  his  sole  task  was  to  gather  strength. 
The  thin  face  was  sallow  no  longer;  it  was  the  color 
of  evening  shadows;  indeed  he  lay  among  the 
cushions  seemingly  no  more  than  a  gaunt  shadow 
of  the  late  afternoon,  looking  old  and  g*ray  and 
weary.  They  rolled  along  abusing  each  other,  John 
sometimes  gratefully  threatening  his  friend  with 
violence. 

The  victoria  passed  a  stone  house  with  wide 
lawns  and  an  inhospitable  air  of  wealth  and  im 
portunate  rank;  over  the  sward  two  peacocks  swung, 
ambulating  like  caravals  in  a  green  sea;  and  one 


expected  a  fine  lady  to  come  smiling  and  glittering 
from  the  door.  Oddly  enough,  though  he  had  never 
seen  the  place  before,  it  struck  Harkless  with  a 
sense  of  familiarity.  "Who  lives  there?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

"Who  lives  there?  On  the  left?  Why  that— 
that  is  the  Sherwood  place,"  Meredith  answered, 
in  a  tone  which  sounded  as  if  he  were  not  quite 
sure  of  it,  but  inclined  to  think  his  information 
correct.  Harkless  relapsed  into  silence. 

Meredith's  home  was  a  few  blocks  further  up  the 
same  street;  a  capacious  house  in  the  Western 
fashion  of  the  Seventies.  In  front,  on  the  lawn, 
there  was  a  fountain  with  a  leaping  play  of  water; 
maples  and  shrubbery  were  everywhere;  and  here 
and  there  stood  a  stiff  sentinel  of  Lombardy  poplar. 
It  was  all  cool  and  incongruous  and  comfortable; 
and,  on  the  porch,  sheltered  from  publicity  by  a 
multitude  of  palms  and  flowering  plants,  a  white- 
jacketed  negro  appeared  with  a  noble  smile  and  a 
more  important  tray,  whereon  tinkled  bedewed 
glasses  and  a  crystal  pitcher,  against  whose  sides 
the  ice  clinked  sweetly.  There  was  a  complement 
of  straws. 

WTien  they  had  helped  him  to  an  easy  chair  on 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  355 

the  porch,  Harkless  whistled  luxuriously.  "Ah,  my 
bachelor!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  selected  a  straw. 

"  'Who  would  fardels  bear?' '  rejoined  Mr. 
Meredith.  Then  came  to  the  other  a  recollection 
of  an  auburn-haired  ball  player  on  whom  the  third 
strike  had  once  been  called  while  his  eyes  wandered 
tenderly  to  the  grandstand,  where  the  prettiest 
girl  of  that  commencement  week  was  sitting. 

"Have  you  forgot  the  'Indian  Princess'?"  he 
asked. 

"You're  a  dull  old  person,"  Tom  laughed. 
"Haven't  you  discovered  that  'tis  they  who  forget 
us?  And  why  shouldn't  they?  Do  we  remember 
well? — anybody  except  just  us  two,  I  mean,  of 
course." 

"I've  a  notion  we  do,  sometimes." 

The  other  set  his  glass  on  the  tray,  and  lit  his 
cigarette.  "Yes;  when  we're  unsuccessful.  Then 
I  think  we  do." 

"That  may  be  true." 

"Of  course  it  is.  If  a  lady  wishes  to  make  an 
impression  on  me  that  is  worth  making,  let  her  let 
me  make  none  on  her." 

"You  think  it  is  always  our  vanity?" 

"Analyze  it  as  your  revered  Thomas  does  and 


356  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

you  shall  reach  the  same  conclusion.  Let  a  girl 
reject  you  and—  '  Meredith  broke  off,  cursing  him 
self  inwardly,  and,  rising,  cried  gaily:  "What  profit- 
eth  it  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  wisdom  in  regard 
to  women  and  loseth  not  his  own  heart?  And 
neither  of  us  is  lacking  a  heart — though  it  may  be; 
one  can't  tell,  one's  self;  one  has  to  find  out  about 
that  from  some  girl.  At  least,  I'm  rather  sure  of 
mine;  it's  difficult  to  give  a  tobacco-heart  away; 
it's  drugged  on  the  market.  I'm  going  to  bring  out 
the  dogs;  I'm  spending  the  summer  at  home  just 
to  give  them  daily  exercise." 

This  explanation  of  his  continued  presence  in 
Rouen  struck  John  as  quite  as  plausible  as  Mere 
dith's  more  seriously  alleged  reasons  for  not  joining 
his  mother  and  sister,  at  Winter  Harbor.  (He  pos 
sessed  a  mother,  and,  as  he  explained,  he  had  also 
sisters  to  satiety,  in  point  of  numbers.)  Harkless 
knew  that  Tom  had  stayed  to  look  after  him;  and 
he  thought  there  never  was  so  poor  a  peg  as  him 
self  whereon  to  hang  the  warm  mantle  of  such  a 
friendship.  He  knew  that  other  mantles  of  affec 
tion  and  kindliness  hung  on  that  self-same  peg, 
for  he  had  been  moved  by  the  letters  and  visits 
from  Carlow  people,  and  he  had  heard  the  story 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  357 

of  their  descent  upon  the  hospital,  and  of  the  march 
on  the  Cross-Roads.  Many  a  good  fellow,  too, 
had  come  to  see  him  during  his  better  days — 
from  Judge  Briscoe,  openly  tender  and  solicitous,  to 
the  embarrassed  William  Todd,  who  fiddled  at  his 
hat  and  explained  that,  being  as  he  was  in  town  on 
business  (a  palpable  fiction)  he  thought  he'd  look 
in  to  see  if  "they  was  any  word  would  wish  to  be 
sent  down  to  our  city."  The  good  will  the  sick 
man  had  from  every  one  touched  him,  and  made 
him  feel  unworthy,  and  he  could  see  nothing  he  had 
done  to  deserve  it.  Mr.  Meredith  could  (and  would 
not — openly,  at  least)  have  explained  to  him  that 
it  made  not  a  great  deal  of  difference  what  he  did; 
it  was  what  people  thought  he  was. 

His  host  helped  him  upstairs  after  dinner,  and 
showed  him  the  room  prepared  for  his  occupancy. 
Harkless  sank,  sighing  with  weakness,  into  a  deep 
chair,  and  Meredith  went  to  a  window-seat  and 
stretched  himself  out  for  a  smoke  and  chat. 

"Doesn't  it  beat  your  time,"  he  said,  cheerily, 
"to  think  of  what's  become  of  all  the  old  boys? 
They  turn  up  so  differently  from  what  we  expected, 
when  they  turn  up  at  all.  We  sized  them  up  all 
right  so  far  as  character  goes,  I  fancy,  but  we  couldn't 


358  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

size  up  the  chances  of  life.  Take  poor  old  Pickle 
Haines:  who'd  have  dreamed  Pickle  would  shoot 
himself  over  a  bankruptcy?  I  dare  say  that  wasn't 
all  of  it — might  have  been  cherchez  la  femme,  don't 
you  think?  What  do  you  make  of  Pickle's  case, 
John?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Harkless's  chair  was  di 
rectly  in  front  of  the  mantel-piece,  and  upon  the 
carved  wooden  shelf,  amongst  tobacco-jars  and  little 
curios,  cotillion  favors  and  the  like,  there  were 
scattered  a  number  of  photographs.  One  of  these 
was  that  of  a  girl  who  looked  straight  out  at  you 
from  a  filigree  frame;  there  was  hardly  a  corner  of 
the  room  where  you  could  have  stood  without 
her  clear,  serious  eyes  seeming  to  rest  upon  yours. 

"Cherchez  la  femme?"  repeated  Tom,  puffing 
unconsciously.  "Pickle  was  a  good  fellow,  but  he 
had  the  deuce  of  an  eye  for  a  girl.  Do  you  remem 
ber —  He  stopped  short,  and  saw  the  man  and 
the  photograph  looking  at  each  other.  Too  late, 
he  unhappily  remembered  that  he  had  meant,  and 
forgotten,  to  take  that  photograph  out  of  the  room 
before  he  brought  Harkless  in.  Now  he  would  have 
to  leave  it;  and  Helen  Sherwood  was  not  the  sort 
of  girl,  even  in  a  flat  presentment,  to  be  continually 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  359 

thrown  in  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  lost  her.  And 
it  always  went  hard,  Tom  reflected,  with  men  who 
stretched  vain  hands  to  Helen,  only  to  lose  her. 
But  there  was  one,  he  thought,  whose  outstretched 
hands  might  not  prove  so  vain.  Why  couldn't 
she  have  cared  for  John  Harkless?  Deuce  take  the 
girl,  did  she  want  to  marry  an  emperor?  He  looked 
at  Harkless,  and  pitied  him  with  an  almost  tearful 
compassion.  A  feverish  color  dwelt  in  the  con 
valescent's  cheek;  the  apathy  that  had  dulled  his 
eyes  was  there  no  longer;  instead,  they  burned 
with  a  steady  fire.  The  image  returned  his  unwaver 
ing  gaze  with  inscrutable  kindness. 

"You  heard  that  Pickle  shot  himself,  didn't  you?" 
Meredith  asked.  There  was  no  answer;  John  did 
not  hear  him. 

"Do  you  know  that  poor  Jerry  Haines  killed 
himself,  last  March?"  Tom  said  sharply. 

There  was  only  silence  in  the  room.  Meredith 
got  up  and  rattled  some  tongs  in  the  empty  fire' 
place,  but  the  other  did  not  move  or  notice  him 
in  any  way. 

Meredith  set  the  tongs  down,  and  went  quietly 
out  of  the  room,  leaving  his  friend  to  that  mys 
terious  interview. 


360  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

When  he  came  back,  after  a  remorseful  cigarette 
in  the  yard,  Harkless  was  still  sitting,  motionless, 
looking  up  at  the  photograph  above  the  mantel 
piece. 

They  drove  abroad  every  day,  at  first  in  the 
victoria,  and,  as  Harkless's  strength  began  to  come 
back,  in  a  knock-about  cart  of  Tom's,  a  light  trail 
of  blue  smoke  floating  back  wherever  the  two  friends 
passed.  And  though  the  country  editor  grew 
stronger  in  the  pleasant,  open  city,  Meredith  felt 
that  his  apathy  and  listlessness  only  deepened,  and 
he  suspected  that,  in  Harkless's  own  room,  where 
the  photograph  reigned,  the  languor  departed  for 
the  time,  making  way  for  a  destructive  fire.  Judge 
Briscoe,  paying  a  second  visit  to  Rouen,  told  Tom, 
in  an  aside,  that  their  friend  did  not  seem  to  be 
the  same  man.  He  was  altered  and  aged  beyond 
belief,  the  old  gentleman  whispered  sadly. 

Meredith  decided  that  his  guest  needed  enlivening 
— something  to  take  him  out  of  himself;  he  must 
be  stirred  up  to  rub  against  people  once  more. 
And  therefore,  one  night  he  made  a  little  company 
for  him:  two  or  three  apparently  betrothed  very 
young  couples,  for  whom  it  was  rather  dull,  after 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  361 

they  had  looked  their  fill  of  Harkless  (it  appeared 
that  every  one  was  curious  to  see  him);  and  three 
or  four  married  young  couples,  for  whom  the  enter 
tainment  seemed  rather  diverting  in  an  absent- 
minded  way  (they  had  the  air  of  remembering  that 
they  had  forgotten  the  baby);  and  three  or  four 
bachelors,  who  seemed  contented  in  any  place 
where  they  were  allowed  to  smoke;  and  one  widower, 
whose  manner  indicated  that  any  occasion  whatever 
was  gay  enough  for  him;  and  four  or  five  young 
women,  who  (Meredith  explained  to  John)  were 
of  their  host's  age,  and  had  been  "left  over"  out  of 
the  set  he  grew  up  with;  and  for  these  the  modest 
party  took  on  a  hilarious  and  chipper  character. 
"It  is  these  girls  that  have  let  the  men  go  by  because 
they  didn't  see  any  good  enough;  they're  the  jolly 
souls!"  the  one  widower  remarked,  confidentially. 
"They've  been  at  it  a  long  while,  and  they  know 
how,  and  they're  light-hearted  as  robins.  They 
have  more  fun  than  people  who  have  responsibilities." 
All  of  these  lively  demoiselles  fluttered  about 
Harkless  with  commiserative  pleasantries,  and,  in 
spite  of  his  protestations,  made  him  recline  in  the 
biggest  and  deepest  chair  on  the  porch,  where  they 
surfeited  him  with  kindness  and  grouped  about  him 


362  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

with  extra  cushions  and  tenderness  for  a  man  who 
had  been  injured.  No  one  mentioned  the  fact  that 
he  had  been  hurt;  it  was  not  spoken  of,  though  they 
wished  mightily  he  would  tell  them  the  story  they 
had  read  luridly  in  the  public  prints.  They  were 
very  good  to  him.  One  of  them,  in  particular,  a 
handsome,  dark,  kind-eyed  girl,  constituted  herself 
at  once  his  cicerone  in  Rouen  gossip  and  his  wait 
ing-maid.  She  sat  by  him,  and  saw  that  his  needs 
(and  his  not-needs,  too)  were  supplied  and  over- 
supplied;  she  could  not  let  him  move,  and  antici 
pated  his  least  wish,  though  he  was  now  amply 
able  to  help  himself;  and  she  fanned  him  as  if  he 
were  a  dying  consumptive. 

They  sat  on  Meredith's  big  porch  in  the  late 
twilight  and  ate  a  substantial  refection,  and  when 
this  was  finished,  a  buzz  of  nonsense  rose  from  all 
quarters,  except  the  remote  corners  where  the 
youthful  affianced  ones  had  defensively  stationed 
themselves  behind  a  rampart  of  plants.  They, 
having  eaten,  had  naught  to  do,  and  were  only 
waiting  a  decent  hour  for  departure.  Laughing 
voices  passed  up  and  down  the  street,  and  mingled 
with  the  rhythmic  plashing  of  Meredith's  fountain, 
and,  beyond  the  shrubberies  and  fence,  one  caught 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   363 

glimpses  of  the  light  dresses  of  women  moving 
to  and  fro,  and  of  people  sitting  bareheaded  on 
neighboring  lawns  to  enjoy  the  twilight.  Now  and 
then  would  pass,  with  pipe  and  dog,  the  beflanneled 
figure  of  an  undergraduate,  home  for  vacation,  or 
a  trio  of  youths  in  knickerbockers,  or  a  band  of 
young  girls,  or  both  trio  and  band  together;  and 
from  a  cross  street,  near  by,  came  the  calls  and 
laughter  of  romping  children  and  the  pulsating 
whirr  of  a  lawn-mower.  This  sound  Harkless  re 
marked  as  a  ceaseless  accompaniment  to  life  in 
Rouen;  even  in  the  middle  of  the  night  there  was 
always  some  unfortunate,  cutting  grass. 

When  the  daylight  was  all  gone,  and  the  stars 
had  crept  out,  strolling  negroes  patrolled  the  side 
walks,  thrumming  mandolins  and  guitars,  and  others 
came  and  went,  singing,  making  the  night  Venetian. 
The  untrained,  joyous  voices,  chording  eerily  in 
their  sweet,  racial  minors,  came  on  the  air,  some 
times  from  far  away.  But  there  swung  out  a  chorus 
from  fresh,  Aryan  throats,  in  the  house  south  of 
Meredith's: 

'Where,  oh  where,  are  the  grave  old  Seniors? 
Safe,  now,  in  the  wide,  wide  world!" 

"Doesn't  that  thrill  you,  boy?"  said  Meredith, 


364  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

joining  the  group  about  Harkless's  chair.  "Those 
fellows  are  Sophomores,  class  of  heaven  knows 
what.  Aren't  you  feeling  a  fossil,  Father  Abraham?" 
A  banjo  chattered  on  the  lawn  to  the  north,  and 
soon  a  mixed  chorus  of  girls  and  boys  sang  from 
there: 

"O,  'Arriet,  I'm  waiting,  waiting  alone  out  "ere." 

Then  a  piano  across  the  street  sounded  the  dearth- 
ful  harmonies  of  Chopin's  Funeral  March. 

"You  may  take  your  choice,"  remarked  Mere 
dith,  flicking  a  spark  over  the  rail  in  the  ash  of  his 
cigar,  "Chopping  or  Chevalier." 

"Chopin,  my  friend,"  said  the  lady  who  had  at 
tached  herself  to  Harkless.  She  tapped  Tom's 
shoulder  with  her  fan  and  smiled,  graciously  cor 
rective. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Hinsdale,"  he  answered,  grate 
fully.  "And  as  I,  perhaps,  had  better  say,  since 
otherwise  there  might  be  a  pause  and  I  am  the  host, 
we  have  a  wide  selection.  In  addition  to  what  is 
provided  at  present,  I  predict  that  within  the 
next  ten  minutes  a  talented  girl  who  lives  two  doors 
south  will  favor  us  with  the  Pilgrims'  Chorus, 
piano  arrangement,  break  down  in  the  middle,  and 
drift  into  'Rastus  on  Parade/  while  a  double  quar- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  365 

tette  of  middle-aged  colored  gentlemen  under  our 
Jim  will  make  choral  offering  in  our  own  back 
yard." 

"My  dear  Tom,"  exclaimed  Miss  Hinsdale,  "you 
forget  Wetherford  Swift!" 

"I  could  stand  it  all,"  put  forth  the  widower,  "if 
it  were  not  for  Wetherford  Swift." 

"When  is  Miss  Sherwood  coming  home?"  asked 
one  of  the  ladies.  "Why  does  she  stay  away  and 
leave  him  to  his  sufferings?" 

"Us  to  his  sufferings,"  substituted  a  bachelor. 
"He  is  just  beginning;  listen." 

Through  all  the  other  sounds  of  music,  there 
penetrated  from  an  unseen  source,  a  sawish, 
scraped,  vibration  of  catgut,  pathetic,  insistent, 
painstaking,  and  painful  beyond  belief. 

"He  is  in  a  terrible  way  to-night,"  said  the 
widower. 

Miss  Hinsdale  laughed.  "Worse  every  night. 
The  violinist  is  young  Wetherford  Swift,"  she  ex 
plained  to  Harkless.  "He  is  very  much  in  love, 
and  it  doesn't  agree  with  him.  He  used  to  be  such 
a  pleasant  boy,  but  last  winter  he  went  quite  mad 
over  Helen  Sherwood,  Mr.  Meredith's  cousin,  our 
beauty,  you  know — I  am  so  sorry  she  isn't  here; 


366  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

you'd  be  interested  in  meeting  her,  I'm  sure — and 
he  took  up  the  violin." 

"It  is  said  that  his  family  took  up  chloroform  at 
the  same  time,"  said  the  widower. 

"His  music  is  a  barometer,"  continued  the  lady, 
"and  by  it  the  neighborhood  nightly  observes 
whether  Miss  Sherwood  has  been  nice  to  him  or 
not." 

"It  is  always  exceedingly  plaintive,"  explained 
another. 

"Except  once,"  rejoined  Miss  Hinsdale.  "He 
played  jigs  when  she  came  home  from  somewhere 
or  other,  in  June." 

"It  was  Tosti's  'Let  Me  Die,'  the  very  next 
evening,"  remarked  the  widower. 

"Ah,"  said  one  of  the  bachelors,  "but  his  joy  was 
sadder  for  us  than  his  misery.  Hear  him  now." 

"I  think  he  means  it  for  'What's  this  dull  town 
to  me,'  "  observed  another,  with  some  rancor.  "I 
would  willingly  make  the  town  sufficiently  exciting 
for  him 

"If  there  were  not  an  ordinance  against  the  hurl 
ing  of  missiles,"  finished  the  widower. 

The  piano  executing  the  funeral  march  ceased 
to  execute,  discomfited  by  the  persistent  and  over- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   367 

powering  violin;  the  banjo  and  the  coster-songs 
were  given  over;  even  the  collegians'  music  was 
defeated;  and  the  neighborhood  was  forced  to  listen 
to  the  dauntless  fiddle,  but  not  without  protest, 
for  there  came  an  indignant,  spoken  chorus  from 
the  quarter  whence  the  college  songs  had  issued; 
"Ya-a-ay!  Wetherford,  put  it  away!  She'tt  come 
back!"  The  violin  played  on. 

"We  all  know  each  other  here,  you  see,  Mr. 
Harkless,"  Miss  Hinsdale  smiled  benignantly. 

"They  didn't  bother  Mr.  Wetherford  Swift,"  said 
the  widower.  "Not  that  time.  Do  you  hear  him? 
— 'Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas'?" 

"Oh,  but  it  isn't  absence  that  is  killing  him  and 
his  friends,"  cried  one  of  the  young  women.  "It 
is  Brainard  Macauley." 

"That  is  a  mistake,"  said  Tom  Meredith,  as 
easily  as  he  could.  "There  goes  Jim's  double- 
quartette.  Listen,  and  you  will  hear  them  try 
• »> 

But  the  lady  who  had  mentioned  Brainard 
Macauley  cried  indignantly:  "You  try  to  change 
the  subject  the  moment  it  threatens  to  be  interest 
ing.  They  were  together  everywhere  until  the  day 
she  went  away;  they  danced  and  'sat  out'  together 


368  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

through  the  whole  of  one  country-club  party;  they 
drove  every  afternoon;  they  took  long  walks,  and 
he  was  at  the  Sherwoods'  every  evening  of  her 
last  week  in  town.  'That  is  a  mistake!' ' 

"I'm  afraid  it  looks  rather  bleak  for  Wetherford," 
said  the  widower.  "I  went  up  to  the  'Journal' 
office  on  business,  one  day,  and  there  sat  Miss 
Sherwood  in  Macauley's  inner  temple,  chatting  with 
a  reporter,  while  Brainard  finished  some  work." 

"Helen  is  eccentric,"  said  the  former  speaker, 
"but  she's  not  quite  that  eccentric,  unless  they  were 
engaged.  It  is  well  understood  that  they  will 
announce  it  in  the  fall." 

Miss  Hinsdale  kindly  explained  to  Harkless  that 
Brainard  Macauley  was  the  editor  of  the  "Rouen 
Morning  Journal" — "a  very  distinguished  young 
man,  not  over  twenty -eight,  and  perfectly  wonder 
ful."  Already  a  power  to  be  accounted  with  in 
national  politics,  he  was  "really  a  tremendous  suc 
cess,"  and  sure  to  go  far;  "one  of  those  delicate- 
looking  men,  who  are  yet  so  strong  you  know  they 
won't  let  the  lightning  hurt  you."  It  really  looked 
as  if  Helen  Sherwood  (whom  Harkless  really  ought 
to  meet)  had  actually  been  caught  in  the  toils  at 
last,  those  toils  wherein  so  many  luckless  youths 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   369 

had  lain  enmeshed  for  her  sake.  He  must  meet 
Mr.  Macauley,  too,  the  most  interesting  man  in 
Rouen.  After  her  little  portrait  of  him,  didn't  Mr. 
Harkless  agree  that  it  looked  really  pretty  dull 
for  Miss  Sherwood's  other  lovers? 

Mr.  Harkless  smiled,  and  agreed  that  it  did  in 
deed.  She  felt  a  thrill  of  compassion  for  him,  and 
her  subsequent  description  of  the  pathos  of  his 
smile  was  luminous.  She  said  it  was  natural  that 
a  man  who  had  been  through  so  much  suffering 
from  those  horrible  "White-Cappers"  should  have 
a  smile  that  struck  into  your  heart  like  a  knife. 

Despite  all  that  Meredith  could  do,  and  after  his 
notorious  effort  to  shift  the  subject  he  could  do 
very  little,  the  light  prattle  ran  on  about  Helen 
Sherwood  and  Brainard  Macauley.  Tom  abused 
himself  for  his  wild  notion  of  cheering  his  visitor 
with  these  people  who  had  no  talk,  and  who,  if 
they  drifted  out  of  commonplace  froth,  had  no 
medium  to  float  them  unless  they  sailed  the  currents 
of  local  personality,  and  he  mentally  upbraided 
them  for  a  set  of  gossiping  ninnies.  They  conducted 
a  conversation  (if  it  could  be  dignified  by  a  name) 
of  which  no  stranger  could  possibly  partake,  and 
which,  by  a  hideous  coincidence,  was  making  his 


370  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

friend  writhe,  figuratively  speaking,  for  Harkless  sat 
like  a  fixed  shadow.  He  uttered  scarcely  a  word 
the  whole  evening,  though  Meredith  knew  that 
his  guests  would  talk  about  him  enthusiastically, 
the  next  day,  none  the  less.  The  journalist's  silence 
was  enforced  by  the  topics;  but  what  expression 
and  manner  the  light  allowed  them  to  see  was 
friendly  and  receptive,  as  though  he  listened  to 
brilliant  suggestions.  He  had  a  nice  courtesy,  and 
Miss  Hinsdale  felt  continually  that  she  was  cleverer 
than  usual  this  evening,  and  no  one  took  his  silence 
to  be  churlish,  though  they  all  innocently  wondered 
why  he  did  not  talk  more;  however,  it  was  prob 
able  that  a  man  who  had  been  so  interestingly  and 
terribly  shot  would  be  rather  silent  for  a  time 
afterward. 

That  night,  when  Harkless  had  gone  to  bed 
Meredith  sat  late  by  his  own  window  calling  him 
self  names.  He  became  aware  of  a  rhomboidal 
patch  of  yellow  light  on  a  wall  of  foliage  without, 
and  saw  that  it  came  from  his  friend's  window. 
After  dubious  consideration,  he  knocked  softly  on 
the  door. 

"Come." 

He  went  in.     Harkless  was  in  bed,  and  laughed 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  371 

faintly  as  Meredith  entered.  "I — I'm  fearing  you'll 
have  to  let  me  settle  your  gas  bill,  Tom.  I'm 
not  like  I  used  to  be,  quite.  I  find — since — since 
that  business,  I  can't  sleep  without  a  light.  I 
rather  get  the — the  horrors  in  the  dark." 

Incoherently,  Meredith  made  a  compassionate 
exclamation  and  turned  to  go,  and,  as  he  left  the 
room,  his  eye  fell  upon  the  mantel-piece.  The 
position  of  the  photographs  had  been  altered,  and 
the  picture  of  the  girl  who  looked  straight  out  at 
you  was  gone.  The  mere  rim  of  it  was  visible 
behind  the  image  of  an  old  gentleman  with  a  sar 
donic  mouth. 

An  hour  later,  Tom  came  back,  and  spoke  through 
the  closed  door.  "Boy,  don't  you  think  you  can 
get  to  sleep  now?" 

"Yes,  Tom.  It's  all  right.  You  get  to  bed. 
Nothing  troubles  me." 

Meredith  spent  the  next  day  in  great  tribulation 
and  perplexity;  he  felt  that  something  had  to  be 
done,  but  what  to  do  he  did  not  know.  He  still 
believed  that  a  "stirring-up"  was  what  Harkless 
needed — not  the  species  of  "stirring-up"  that  had 
taken  place  last  night,  but  a  diversion  which  would 
divert.  As  they  sat  at  dinner,  a  suggestion  came  to 


372  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

him  and  he  determined  to  follow  it.  He  was  called 
to  the  telephone,  and  a  voice  strange  to  his  ear 
murmured  in  a  tone  of  polite  deference:  "A  lady 
wishes  to  know  if  Mr.  Meredith  and  his  visitor 
intend  being  present  at  the  country-club  this 
evening." 

He  haci  received  the  same  inquiry  from  Miss 
Hinsdale  on  her  departure  the  previous  evening, 
an^  had  answered  vaguely;  hence  he  now  re 
joined: 

"You  are  quite  an  expert  ventriloquist,  but  you 
do  not  deceive  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  creaked  the  small 
articulation. 

"This  is  Miss  Hinsdale,  isn't  it?" 

"No,  sir.  The  lady  wishes  to  know  if  you  will 
kindly  answer  her  question." 

"Tell  her,  yes."  He  hung  up  the  receiver,  and 
returned  to  the  table.  "Some  of  Clara  Hinsdale's 
play,"  he  explained.  "You  made  a  devastating 
impression  on  her,  boy;  you  were  wise  enough  not 
to  talk  any,  and  she  foolishly  thought  you  were  as 
interesting  as  you  looked.  We're  going  out  to  a 
country-club  dance.  It's  given  for  the  devotees 
who  stay  here  all  summer  and  swear  Rouen  is 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  373 

always  cool;  and  nobody  dances  but  me  and  the 
very  young  ones.  It  won't  be  so  bad;  you  can 
smoke  anywhere,  and  there  are  little  tables. 
We'll  go." 

"Thank  you,  Tom,  you're  so  good  to  think  of  it, 
but " 

"But  what?" 

"Would  you  mind  going  alone?  I  find  it  very 
pleasant  sitting  on  your  veranda,  or  I'll  get  a 
book." 

"Very  well,  if  you  don't  want  to  go,  I  don't. 
I  haven't  had  a  dance  for  three  months  and  I'm 
still  addicted  to  it.  But  of  course " 

"I  think  I'd  like  to  go."  Harkless  acquiesced  at 
once,  with  a  cheerful  voice  and  a  lifeless  eye,  and 
the  good  Tom  felt  unaccountably  mean  in  per 
sisting. 

They  drove  out  into  the  country  through  mists 
like  lakes,  and  found  themselves  part  of  a  pro 
cession  of  twinkling  carriage-lights,  and  cigar  sparks 
shining  above  open  vehicles,  winding  along  the 
levels  like  a  canoe  fete  on  the  water.  In  the  en 
trance  hall  of  the  club-house  they  encountered  Miss 
Hinsdale,  very  handsome,  large,  and  dark,  elabo 
rately  beaming  and  bending  toward  them  warmly. 


374  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Who  do  you  think  is  here?"  she  said. 

"Gomez?"  ventured  Meredith. 

"Helen  Sherwood!"  she  cried.  "Go  and  pre 
sent  Mr.  Harkless  before  Brainard  Macauley  takes 
her  away  to  some  corner." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

PRETTY   MARQUISE 

THE  two  friends  walked  through  a  sort  of 
opera-bouffe  to  find  her;  music  playing,  a 
swaying  crowd,  bright  lights,  bright  eyes, 
pretty  women,  a  glimpse  of  dancers  footing  it  over 
a  polished  floor  in  a  room  beyond — a  hundred 
colors  flashing  and  changing,  as  the  groups  shifted, 
before  the  eye  could  take  in  the  composition  of  the 
picture.  A  sudden  thrill  of  exhilaration  rioted  in 
John's  pulses,  and  he  trembled  like  a  child  before 
the  gay  disclosure  of  a  Christmas  tree.  Meredith 
swore  to  himself  that  he  would  not  have  known 
him  for  the  man  of  five  minutes  agone.  Two  small, 
bright  red  spots  glowed  in  his  cheeks;  he  held 
himself  erect  with  head  thrown  back  and  shoulders 
squared,  and  the  idolizing  Tom  thought  he  looked 
as  a  king  ought  to  look  at  the  acme  of  power  and 
dominion.  Miss  Hinsdale's  word  in  the  hallway 
was  the  genius's  touch:  a  bent,  gray  man  of  years 

— a  word — and  behold  the  Great  John  Harkless, 

375 


376  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

the  youth  of  elder  days  ripened  to  his  prime  of 
wisdom  and  strength!  People  made  way  for  them 
and  whispered  as  they  passed.  It  had  been  years 
since  John  Harkless  had  been  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  of  butterfly  people;  everything  seemed  unreal, 
or  like  a  ball  in  a  play;  presently  the  curtain  would 
fall  and  close  the  lights  and  laughter  from  his  view, 
leaving  only  the  echo  of  music.  It  was  like  a  kaleido 
scope  for  color:  the  bouquets  of  crimson  or  white  or 
pink  or  purple;  the  profusion  of  pretty  dresses,  the 
brilliant,  tender  fabrics,  and  the  handsome,  fore 
shortened  faces  thrown  back  over  white  shoulders 
in  laughter;  glossy  raven  hair  and  fair  tresses  mov 
ing  in  quick  salutations;  and  the  whole  gay  shimmer 
of  festal  tints  and  rich  artificialities  set  off  against 
the  brave  green  of  out-doors,  for  the  walls  were 
solidly  adorned  with  forest  branches,  with,  here  and 
there  amongst  them,  a  blood-red  droop  of  beech 
leaves,  stabbed  in  autumn's  first  skirmish  with 
summer.  The  night  was  cool,  and  the  air  full  of 
flower  smells,  while  harp,  violin,  and  'cello  sent  a 
waltz-throb  through  it  all. 

They  looked  rapidly  through  several  rooms  and 
failed  to  find  her  indoors,  and  they  went  outside, 
not  exchanging  a  word,  and  though  Harkless  was  a 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  377 

little  lame,  Tom  barely  kept  up  with  his  long  stride. 
On  the  verandas  there  were  fairy  lamps  and  colored 
incandescents  over  little  tables,  where  people  sat 
chatting.  She  was  not  there.  Beyond  was  a  terrace, 
where  a  myriad  of  Oriental  lanterns  outlined  them 
selves  clearly  in  fantastically  shaped  planes  of  scar 
let  and  orange  and  green  against  the  blue  darkness. 
Many  couples  and  groups  were  scattered  over  the 
terrace,  and  the  young  men  paused  on  the  steps, 
looking  swiftly  from  group  to  group.  She  was  not 
there. 

"We  haven't  looked  in  the  dancing-room,"  said 
Tom,  looking  at  his  companion  rather  sorrowfully. 
John  turned  quickly  and  they  reentered  the  house. 

He  had  parted  from  her  in  the  blackness  of  storm 
with  only  the  flicker  of  lightning  to  show  her  to  him, 
but  it  was  in  a  blaze  of  lights  that  he  saw  her  again. 
The  dance  was  just  ended,  and  she  stood  in  a  wide 
doorway,  half  surrounded  by  pretty  girls  and  young 
men,  who  were  greeting  her.  He  had  one  full  look 
at  her.  She  was  leaning  to  them  all,  her  arms  full 
of  flowers,  and  she  seemed  the  radiant  centre  of 
all  the  light  and  gaiety  of  the  place.  Even  Mere 
dith  stopped  short  and  exclaimed  upon  her;  for  one 
never  got  used  to  her;  and  he  remembered  that 


378  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

whenever  he  saw  her  after  absence  the  sense  of  her 
beauty  rushed  over  him  anew.  And  he  believed  the 
feeling  on  this  occasion  was  keener  than  ever  before, 
for  she  was  prettier  than  he  had  ever  seen  her. 

"No  wonder!"  he  cried;  but  Harkless  did  not 
understand.  As  they  pressed  forward,  Meredith 
perceived  that  they  were  only  two  more  radii  of  a 
circle  of  youths,  sprung  from  every  direction  as  the 
waltz  ended,  bearing  down  upon  the  common  focus 
to  secure  the  next  dance.  Harkless  saw  nothing 
but  that  she  stood  there  before  him.  He  feared  a 
little  that  every  one  might  notice  how  he  was  trem 
bling,  and  he  was  glad  of  the  many  voices  that  kept 
them  from  hearing  his  heart  knock  against  his  ribs. 
She  saw  him  coming  toward  her,  and  nodded  to  him 
pleasantly,  in  just  the  fashion  in  which  she  was  bow 
ing  to  half  a  dozen  others,  and  at  that  a  pang  of  hot 
pain  went  through  him  like  an  arrow — an  arrow 
poisoned  with  cordial,  casual  friendliness. 

She  extended  her  hand  to  him  and  gave  him  a 
smile  that  chilled  him — it  was  so  conventionally 
courteous  and  poised  so  nicely  in  the  manner  of 
society.  He  went  hot  and  cold  fast  enough  then, 
for  not  less  pleasantly  in  that  manner  did  she 
exclaim:  "I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Harkless,. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  379 

so  extremely  glad!  And  so  delighted  to  find  you 
looking  strong  again!  Do  tell  me  about  all  our 
friends  in  Plattville.  I  should  like  to  have  a  little 
chat  with  you  some  time.  So  good  of  you  to  find 
me  in  this  melee." 

And  with  that  she  turned  from  the  poor  fellow  to 
Meredith.  "How  do  you  do,  Cousin  Tom?  I've 
saved  the  next  dance  for  you."  Then  she  distri 
buted  words  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  amongst 
the  circle  about  her — pretty  Marquise  with  a 
vengeance!  "No,  Mr.  Swift,  I  shall  not  make  a 
card;  you  must  come  at  the  beginning  of  a  dance 
if  you  want  one.  I  cannot  promise  the  next;  it  is 
quite  impossible.  No,  I  did  not  go  as  far  north  as 
Mackinac.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Burlingame?— 
Yes,  quite  an  age; — no,  not  the  next,  I  am  afraid; 
nor  the  next; — I'm  not  keeping  a  card.  Good  even 
ing,  Mr.  Baird.  No,  not  the  next.  Oh,  thank  you, 
Miss  Hinsdale! — No,  Mr.  Swift,  it  is  quite  impos 
sible — I'm  so  sorry.  Cousin,  the  music  is  com 
mencing;  this  is  ours." 

As  she  took  Meredith's  arm,  she  handed  her  flow 
ers  to  a  gentleman  beside  her  with  the  slightest 
glance  at  the  recipient;  and  the  gesture  and  look 
made  her  partner  heartsick  for  his  friend;  it  was  so 


380  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

easy  and  natural  and  with  the  air  of  habit,  and  had 
so  much  of  the  manner  with  which  a  woman  hands 
things  to  a  man  who  partakes  of  her  inner  confi 
dences.  Tom  knew  that  Harkless  divined  the 
gesture,  as  well  as  the  identity  of  the  gentleman. 
They  started  away,  but  she  paused,  and  turned  to 
the  latter.  "Mr.  Macauley,  you  must  meet  Mr. 
Harkless.  We  leave  him  in  your  care,  and  you  must 
see  that  he  meets  all  the  pretty  girls — you  are  used 
to  being  nice  to  distinguished  strangers,  you  know." 

Tom  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  whirled  her  away, 
and  Harkless  felt  as  if  a  soft  hand  had  dealt  him 
blow  after  blow  in  the  face.  Was  this  lady  of  little 
baffling  forms  and  small  cold  graces  the  girl  who  had 
been  his  kind  comrade,  the  girl  who  stood  with  him 
by  the  blue  tent-pole,  she  who  had  run  to  him  to 
save  his  life,  she  who  walked  at  his  side  along  the 
pike?  The  contrast  of  these  homely  scenes  made 
him  laugh  grimly.  Was  this  she  who  had  wept 
before  him — was  it  she  who  had  been  redolent  of 
kindness  so  fragrantly  natural  and  true — was  it  she 
who  said  she  "loved  all  these  people  very  much,  in 
spite  of  having  known  them  only  two  days"? 

He  cried  out  upon  himself  for  a  fool.  What  was 
he  in  her  eyes  but  a  man  who  had  needed  to  be  told 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  381 

that  she  did  not  love  him!  Had  he  not  better — and 
more  courteously  to  her — have  avoided  the  meeting 
which  was  necessarily  an  embarrassment  to  her? 
But  no;  he  must  rush  like  a  Mohawk  till  he  found 
her  and  forced  her  to  rebuff  him,  to  veil  her  kind 
ness  in  little  manners,  to  remind  him  that  he  put 
himself  in  the  character  of  a  rejected  importunate. 
She  had  punished  him  enough,  perhaps  a  little  too 
cruelly  enough,  in  leaving  him  with  the  man  to 
whom  she  handed  bouquets  as  a  matter  of  course. 
And  this  man  was  one  whose  success  had  long  been 
a  trumpet  at  his  ear,  blaring  loudly  of  his  own  failure 
in  the  same  career. 

It  had  been  several  years  since  he  first  heard  of 
the  young  editor  of  the  Rouen  "Journal,"  and  nowa 
days  almost  everybody  knew  about  Brainard 
Macauley.  Outwardly,  he  was  of  no  unusual  type: 
an  American  of  affairs;  slight,  easy,  yet  alert; 
relaxed,  yet  sharp;  neat,  regular,  strong;  a  quizzical 
eye,  a  business  chin,  an  ambitious  head  with  soft, 
straight  hair  outlining  a  square  brow;  and  though 
he  was  "of  a  type,"  he  was  not  commonplace,  and 
one  knew  at  once  that  he  would  make  a  rattling 
fight  to  arrive  where  he  was  going. 

It   appeared   that  he  had  heard  of  Harkless,   a» 


382  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

well  as  the  Carlow  editor  of  him.  They  had  a  few 
moments  of  shop,  and  he  talked  to  Harkless  as  a 
brother  craftsman,  without  the  offense  of  gracious- 
ness,  and  spoke  of  his  pleasure  in  the  meeting  and 
of  his  relief  at  Harkless's  recovery,  for,  aside  from 
the  mere  human  feeling,  the  party  needed  him  in 
Carlow — even  if  he  did  not  always  prove  himself 
"quite  a  vehement  partisan."  Macauley  laughed. 
"But  I'm  not  doing  my  duty,"  he  said  presently; 
"I  was  to  present  you  to  the  pretty  ones  only,  I 
believe.  Will  you  designate  your  preferred  fashion 
of  beauty?  We  serve  all  styles." 

"Thank  you,"  the  other  answered,  hurriedly.  "I 
met  a  number  last  night — quite  a  number,  indeed." 
He  had  seen  them  only  in  dim  lights,  however,  and 
except  Miss  Hinsdale  and  the  widower,  had  not  the 
faintest  recognition  of  any  of  them,  and  he  cut  them 
all,  except  those  two,  one  after  the  other,  before  the 
evening  was  over;  and  this  was  a  strange  thing  for 
a  politician  to  do;  but  he  did  it  with  such  an  inno 
cent  eye  that  they  remembered  the  dark  porch  and 
forgave  him. 

"Shall  we  watch  the  dancing,  then?"  asked 
Macauley.  Harkless  was  already  watching  part 
of  it. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  383 

"If  you  will.  I  have  not  seen  this  sort  for  more 
than  five  years." 

"It  is  always  a  treat,  I  think,  and  a  constant  proof 
that  the  older  school  of  English  caricaturists  didn't 
overdraw." 

"Yes;  one  realizes  they  couldn't." 

Harkless  remembered  Tom  Meredith's  fine  accom 
plishment  of  dancing;  he  had  been  the  most  famous 
dancer  of  college  days,  and  it  was  in  the  dancer 
that  John  best  saw  his  old  friend  again  as  he  had 
known  him,  the  light  lad  of  the  active  toe.  Other 
couples  flickered  about  the  one  John  watched, 
couples  that  plodded,  couples  that  bobbed,  couples 
that  galloped,  couples  that  slid,  but  the  cousins  alone 
passed  across  the  glistening  reflections  as  lightly  as 
October  leaves  blown  over  the  forest  floor.  In  the 
midst  of  people  who  danced  with  fixed,  glassy  eyes, 
or  who  frowned  with  determination  to  do  their  duty 
or  to  die,  and  seemed  to  expect  the  latter,  or  who 
were  pale  with  the  apprehension  of  collision,  or  who 
made  visible  their  anxiety  to  breathe  through  the 
nose  and  look  pleased  at  the  same  time,  these  two 
floated  and  smiled  easily  upon  life.  Three  or  four 
steep  steps  made  the  portly  and  cigarette-smoking 
Meredith  pant  like  an  old  man,  but  a  dance  was  a 


384  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

cooling  draught  to  him.  As  for  the  little  Marquise 
—when  she  danced,  she  danced  away  with  all  those 
luckless  hearts  that  were  not  hers  already.  The 
orchestra  launched  the  jubilant  measures  of  the 
deux-temps  with  a  torrent  of  vivacity,  and  the  girl's 
rhythmic  flight  answered  like  a  sail  taking  the 
breeze. 

There  was  one  heart  she  had  long  since  won 
which  answered  her  every  movement.  Flushed, 
rapturous,  eyes  sparkling,  cheeks  aglow,  the  small 
head  weaving  through  the  throng  like  a  golden 
shuttle — ah,  did  she  know  how  adorable  she  was! 
Was  Tom  right:  is  it  the  attainable  unattain 
able  to  one  man  and  given  to  some  other  that 
leaves  a  deeper  mark  upon  him  than  success? 
At  all  events  the  unattainable  was  now  like  a 
hot  sting  in  the  heart,  but  yet  a  sting  more 
precious  than  a  balm.  The  voice  of  Brainard 
Macauley  broke  in: 

"A  white  brow  and  a  long  lash,  a  flushing  eheek 
and  a  soft  eye,  a  voice  that  laughs  and  breaks  and 
ripples  in  the  middle  of  a  word,  a  girl  you  could  put 
in  your  hat,  Mr.  Harkless — and  there  you  have  a 
strong  man  prone!  But  I  congratulate  you  on  the 
manner  your  subordinates  operate  the  'Herald' 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  385 

during  your  absence.  I  understand  you  are  making 
it  a  daily." 

Macauley  was  staring  at  him  quizzically,  and 
Harkless,  puzzled,  but  without  resentment  of  the 
other's  whimsey,  could  only  decide  that  the  editor 
of  the  Rouen  "Journal"  was  an  exceedingly  odd 
young  man.  All  at  once  he  found  Meredith  and 
the  girl  herself  beside  him;  they  had  stopped  before 
the  dance  was  finished.  He  had  the  impulse  to 
guard  himself  from  new  blows  as  a  boy  throws  up 
his  elbow  to  ward  a  buffet,  and.  although  he  could 
not  ward  with  his  elbow,  for  his  heart  was  on  his 
sleeve — where  he  began  to  believe  that  Macauley 
had  seen  it — he  remembered  that  he  could  smile 
with  as  much  intentional  mechanism  as  any  worn- 
out  rounder  of  afternoons.  He  stepped  aside  for 
her,  and  she  saw  what  she  had  known  but  had  not 
seen  before,  for  the  thickness  of  the  crowd,  and  thi* 
was  that  he  limped  and  leaned  upon  his  stick.  >v,) 

"Do  let  me  thank  you,"  he  said,  with  a  louder 
echo  of  her  manner  of  greeting  him,  a  little  earlier. 
"It  has  been  such  a  pleasure  to  watch  you  dance. 
It  is  really  charming  to  meet  you  here.  If  I  return 
to  Plattville  I  shall  surely  remember  to  tell  Miss 
Briscoe." 


386  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

At  this  she  surprised  him  with  a  sudden,  clear  look 
in  the  eyes,  so  reproachful,  so  deep,  so  sad,  that  he 
started.  She  took  her  flowers  from  Macauley,  who 
had  the  air  of  understanding  the  significance  of  such 
ceremonies  very  well,  and  saying,  "Shan't  we  all 
go  out  on  the  terrace?"  placed  her  arm  in  Hark- 
less's,  and  conducted  him  (and  not  the  others)  to  the 
most  secluded  corner  of  the  terrace,  a  nook  illu 
mined  by  one  Japanese  lantern;  to  which  spot 
it  was  his  belief  that  he  led  her.  She  sank  into 
a  chair,  with  the  look  of  the  girl  who  had  stood  by 
the  blue  tent-pole.  He  could  only  stare  at  her, 
amazed  by  her  abrupt  change  to  this  dazzling,  if  re 
proachful,  kindness,  confused  by  his  good  fortune. 

"  '//  you  go  back  to  Plattville!'  "  she  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  been  dull  lately,  and  I 
thought  I  might  go  somewhere  else."  Caught  in  a 
witchery  no  lack  of  possession  could  dispel,  and 
which  the  prospect  of  loss  made  only  stronger  while 
it  lasted,  he  took  little  thought  of  what  he  said;  little 
thought  of  anything  but  of  the  gladness  it  was  to  be 
with  her  again. 

"'Somewhere   else?'     Where?" 

"Anywhere." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  387 

"Have  you  no  sense  of  responsibility?  What  is 
to  become  of  your  paper?" 

"The  'Herald'?     Oh,  it  will  potter  along,  I  think." 

"But  what  has  become  of  it  in  your  absence,  al 
ready?  Has  it  not  deteriorated  very  much?" 

"No,"  he  said;  "it's  better  than  it  ever  was  be 
fore." 

"What!"  she  cried,  with  a  little  gasp. 

"You're  so  astounded  at  my  modesty?" 

"But  please  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  she  said 
quickly.  "What  happened  to  it?" 

"Isn't  the  'Herald'  rather  a  dull  subject?  I'll 
tell  you  how  well  Judge  Briscoe  looked  when  he 
came  to  see  me;  or,  rather,  tell  me  of  your  summer 
in  the  north." 

"No,"  she  answered  earnestly.  "Don't  you  re 
member  my  telling  you  that  I  am  interested  in  news 
paper  work?" 

"I  have  even  heard  so  from  others,"  he  said,  with 
an  instant  of  dryness. 

"Please  tell  me  about  the  'Herald'?" 

"It  is  very  simple.  Your  friend,  Mr.  Fisbee, 
found  a  substitute,  a  relative  six  feet  high  with  his 
coat  off,  a  traction  engine  for  energy  and  a  limited 
mail  for  speed.  He  writes  me  letters  on  a  type- 


388  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

writer  suffering  from  an  impediment  in  its  speech; 
and  in  brief,  he  is  an  enterprising  idiot  with  a  mania 
for  work-baskets." 

Her  face  was  in  the  shadow. 

"You  say  the — idiot — is  enterprising?"  she  in 
quired. 

"Far  more  enterprising  and  far  less  idiot  than  I. 
They  are  looking  for  oil  down  there,  and  when  he 
came  he  knew  less  about  oil  than  a  kindergarten 
babe,  and  spoke  of  'boring  for  kerosene'  in  his  first 
letter  to  me;  but  he  knows  it  all  now,  and  writes 
long  and  convincing  geological  arguments.  If  a 
well  comes  in,  he  is  prepared  to  get  out  an  extra! 
Perhaps  you  may  understand  what  that  means  in 
Plattville,  with  the  'Herald's'  numerous  forces.  I 
owe  him  everything,  even  the  shares  in  the  oil  com 
pany,  which  he  has  persuaded  me  to  take.  And  he 
is  going  to  dare  to  make  the  'Herald'  a  daily.  Do 
you  remember  asking  me  why  I  had  never  done 
that?  It  seemed  rather  a  venture  to  try  to  compete 
with  the  Rouen  papers  in  offering  State  and  for 
eign  news,  but  this  young  Gulliver  has  tacked  onto 
the  Associated  Press,  and  means  to  print  a  quarto 
— that's  eight  pages,  you  know — once  a  week, 
Saturday,  and  a  double  sheet,  four  pages,  on  other 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  389 

mornings.  The  daily  venture  begins  next  Mon- 
day." 

"Will  it  succeed?" 

"Oh,  no!"  he  laughed. 

"You  think  not?"  Her  interest  in  this  dull  busi 
ness  struck  him  as  astonishing,  and  yet  in  character 
with  her  as  he  had  known  her  in  Plattville.  Then 
he  wondered  unhappily  if  she  thought  that  talking 
of  the  "Herald"  and  learning  things  about  the 
working  of  a  country  newspaper  would  help  her  to 
understand  Brainard  Macauley. 

"Why  have  you  let  him  go  on  with  it?"  she  asked. 
"I  suppose  you  have  encouraged  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  encouraged  him.  The  creature's 
recklessness  fascinated  me.  A  dare-devil  like  that 
is  always  charming."' 

"You  think  there  is  no  chance  for  the  creature's 
succeeding  with  the  daily?" 

"None,"  he  replied  indifferently. 

"You  mentioned  work-baskets,  I  think?" 

He  laughed  again.  "I  believe  him  to  be  the 
original  wooden-nutmeg  man.  Once  a  week  he  pro 
duces  a  'Woman's  Page,'  wherein  he  presents  to- 
the  Carlow  female  public  three  methods  for  making 
currant  jelly,  three  receipts  for  the  concoction  of 


390  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

salads,  and  directs  the  ladies  how  to  manufacture  a 
pretty  work-basket  out  of  odd  scraps  in  twenty  min 
utes.  The  astonishing  part  of  it  is  that  he  has  not 
yet  been  mobbed  by  the  women  who  have  followed 
his  directions." 

"So  you  think  the  daily  is  a  mistake  and  that  your 
enterprising  idiot  should  be  mobbed?  Why?"  She 
seemed  to  be  taking  him  very  seriously. 

"I  think  he  may  be — for  his  'Woman's  Page.' ' 

"It  is  all  wrong,  you  think?" 

"What  could  a  Yankee  six-footer  cousin  of  old 
Fisbee's  know  about  currant  jelly  and  work-bask 
ets?" 

"You  know  about  currant  jelly  and  work-baskets 
yourself?" 

"Heaven  defend  the  right,  I  do  not!" 

"You  are  sure  he  is  six  feet?" 

"You  should  see  his  signature;  that  leaves  no 
doubt.  And,  also,  his  ability  denotes  his  stature." 

"You  believe  that  ability  is  in  proportion  to 
height,  do  you  not?"  There  was  a  dangerous  lur 
ing  in  her  tone. 

His  memory  recalled  to  him  that  he  was  treading 
on  undermined  ground,  so  he  hastened  to  say:  "In 
inverse  proportion." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  391 

"Then  your  substitute  is  a  failure.  I  see,"  she 
said,  slowly. 

What  muffled  illumination  there  was  in  their  nook 
fell  upon  his  face;  her  back  was  toward  it,  so  that  she 
was  only  an  outline  to  him,  and  he  would  have  been 
startled  and  touched  to  the  quick,  could  he  have 
known  that  her  lip  quivered  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  as  she  spoke  the  last  words.  He  was  happy 
as  he  had  not  been  since  his  short  June  day;  it  was 
enough  to  be  with  her  again.  Nothing,  not  even 
Brainard  Macauley,  could  dull  his  delight.  And, 
besides,  for  a  few  minutes  he  had  forgotten  Brainard 
Macauley.  What  more  could  man  ask  than  to  sit  in 
the  gloom  with  her,  to  know  that  he  was  near  her 
again  for  a  little  while,  and  to  talk  about  anything — 
if  he  talked  at  all?  Nonsense  and  idle  exaggeration 
about  young  Fisbee  would  do  as  well  as  another 
thing. 

"The  young  gentleman  is  an  exception,"  he  re 
turned.  "I  told  you  I  owed  everything  to  him;  my 
gratitude  will  not  allow  me  to  admit  that  his  ability 
is  less  than  his  stature.  He  suggested  my  purchase 
of  a  quantity  of  Mr.  Watts's  oil  stock  when  it  was 
knocked  flat  on  its  back  by  two  wells  turning  out 
dry;  but  if  Mr.  Watts's  third  well  conies  in,  and 


392  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

young  Fisbee  has  convinced  me  that  it  will,  and  if 
my  Midas's  extra  booms  the  stock  and  the  boom 
develops,  I  shall  oppose  the  income  tax.  Poor  old 
Plattville  will  be  full  of  strangers  and  speculators, 
and  the  'Herald'  will  advocate  vast  improvements 
to  impress  the  investor's  eye.  Stagnation  and  pict- 
uresqueness  will  flee  together;  it  is  the  history  of 
the  Indiana  town.  Already  the  'Herald'  is  clamor 
ing  with  Schofields'  Henry — you  remember  the 
bell-ringer? — for  Main  Street  to  be  asphalted.  It 
will  all  come.  The  only  trouble  with  young  Fisbee 
is  that  he  has  too  much  ability." 

"And  yet  the  daily  will  not  succeed?" 
"No.     That's  too  big  a  jump,  unless  my  young 
man's  expressions  on  the  tariff  command  a  wide  sale 
amongst  curio-hunters." 

"Then  he  is  quite  a  fool  about  political  matters?" 
"Far  from  it;  he  is  highly  ingenious.  His  edi 
torials  are  often  the  subtlest  cups  of  flattery  I  ever 
sipped,  many  of  them  showing  assiduous  study  of 
old  files  to  master  the  method  and  notions  of  his 
eagle-eyed  predecessor.  But  the  tariff  seems  to 
have  got  him.  He  is  a  very  masculine  person,  ex 
cept  for  this  one  feminine  quality,  for,  if  I  may  say  it 
without  ungallantry,  there  is  a  legend  that  no 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  393 

woman  has  ever  understood  the  tariff.  Young  Fis- 
bee  must  be  an  extremely  travelled  person,  because 
the  custom-house  people  have  made  an  impression 
upon  him  which  no  few  encounters  with  them  could 
explain,  and  he  conceives  the  tariff  to  be  a  law 
which  discommodes  a  lady  who  has  been  purchasing 
gloves  in  Paris.  He  thinks  smuggling  the  great 
evil  of  the  present  tariff  system;  it  is  such  a  tempta 
tion,  so  insidious  a  break-down  of  moral  fibre.  His 
views  must  edify  Carlow." 

She  gave  a  quick,  stifled  cry.  "Oh!  there  isn't 
a  word  of  truth  in  what  you  say!  Not  a  word1  I 
did  not  think  you  could  be  so  cruel!" 

He  bent  forward,  peering  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Cruel!" 

"You  know  it  is  a  hateful  distortion — an  exag 
geration!"  she  exclaimed  passionately.  "No  man 
living  could  have  so  little  sense  as  you  say  he  has. 
The  tariff  is  perfectly  plain  to  any  child.  When 
you  were  in  Plattville  you  weren't  like  this — I  didn't 
know  you  were  unkind!" 

"I — I   don't   understand,   please- — — " 

"Miss  Hinsdale  has  been  talking — raving — to  me 
about  you!  You  may  not  know  it — though  I  sup 
pose  you  do — but  you  made  a  conquest  last  night. 


394  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

It  seems  a  little  hard  on  the  poor  young  man  who  is 
at  work  for  you  in  Plattville,  doing  his  best  for  you, 
plodding  on  through  the  hot  days,  and  doing  all  he 
knows  how,  while  you  sit  listening  to  music  in  the 
evenings  with  Clara  Hinsdale,  and  make  a  mock  of 
his  work  and  his  trying  to  please  you " 

"But  I  didn't  mention  him  to  Miss  Hinsdale.  In 
fact,  I  didn't  mention  anything  to  Miss  Hinsdale. 
What  have  I  done?  The  young  man  is  making  his 
living  by  his  work — and  my  living,  too,  for  that 
matter.  It  only  seems  to  me  that  his  tariff  edi 
torials  are  rather  humorous." 

She  laughed  suddenly — ringingly.  "Of  course 
they  are!  How  should  I  know?  Immensely  hu 
morous!  And  the  good  creature  knows  nothing 
beyond  smuggling  and  the  custom-house  and  chalk 
marks?  Why,  even  I — ha,  ha,  ha! — even  I — should 
have  known  better  than  that.  What  a  little  fool  your 
enterprising  idiot  must  be! — with  his  work-baskets 
and  currant  jelly  and  his  trying  to  make  the  'Her 
ald'  a  daily ! — It  will  be  a  ludicrous  failure,  of  course. 
No  doubt  he  thought  he  was  being  quite  wise,  and 
was  pleased  over  his  tariff  editorials — his  funny, 
funny  editorials — his  best — to  please  you!  Ha,  ha, 
ha!  How  immensely  funny!" 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  395 

"Do  you  know  him?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"I  have  not  the  honor  of  the  gentleman's  ac 
quaintance.  Ah,"  she  rejoined  bitterly,  "I  see  what 
you  mean;  it  is  the  old  accusation,  is  it?  I  am  a 
woman,  and  I  'sound  the  personal  note.'  I  could 
not  resent  a  cruelty  for  the  sake  of  a  man  I  do  not 
know.  But  let  it  go.  My  resentment  is  personal, 
after  all,  since  it  is  against  a  man  I  do  know — 
you!" 

He  leaned  toward  her  because  he  could  not  help 
it.  "I'd  rather  have  resentment  from  you  than 
nothing." 

"Then  I  will  give  you  nothing,"  she  answered 
quickly. 

"You  flout  me!"  he  cried.  "That  is  better  than 
resentment." 

"I  hate  you  most,  I  think,"  she  said  with  a  tremu- 
lousness  he  did  not  perceive,  "when  you  say  you  do 
not  care  to  go  back  to  Plattville." 

"Did  I  say  it?" 

"It  is  in  every  word,  and  it  is  true;  you  don't  care 
to  go  back  there." 

"Yes,  it  is  true;  I  don't." 

"You  want  to  leave  the  place  where  you  do  good; 
to  leave  those  people  who  love  you,  who  were  ready 


396  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

to  die  to  avenge  your  hurt!"  she  exclaimed  vehe 
mently.  "Oh,  I  say  that  is  shameful!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  returned  gravely.  "I  am 
ashamed." 

"Don't  say  that!"  she  cried.  "Don't  say  you 
are  ashamed  of  it.  Do  you  suppose  I  do  not  under 
stand  the  dreariness  it  has  been  for  you?  Don't  you 
know  that  I  see  it  is  a  horror  to  you,  that  it  brings 
back  your  struggle  with  those  beasts  in  the  dark, 
and  revivifies  all  your  suffering,  merely  to  think  of 
it?"  Her  turns  and  sudden  contradictions  left  him 
tangled  in  a  maze;  he  could  not  follow,  but  must  sit 
helpless  to  keep  pace  with  her,  while  the  sheer  hap 
piness  of  being  with  her  tingled  through  his  veins. 
She  rose  and  took  a  step  aside,  then  spoke  again: 
"Well,  since  you  want  to  leave  Carlow,  you  shall; 
since  you  do  not  wish  to  return,  you  need  not.— Are 
you  laughing  at  me?"  She  leaned  toward  him,  and 
looked  at  him  steadily,  with  her  face  close  to  his. 
He  was  not  laughing;  his  eyes  shone  with  a  deep 
fire;  in  that  nearness  he  hardly  comprehended  what 
she  said.  "Thank  you  for  not  laughing,"  she  whis 
pered,  and  leaned  back  from  him.  "I  suppose  you 
think  my  promises  are  quite  wild,  and  they  are.  I 
do  not  know  what  I  was  talking  about,  or  what  I 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA   397 

meant,  any  better  than  you  do.  You  may  under 
stand  some  day.  It  is  all — I  mean  that  it  hurts  one 
to  hear  you  say  you  do  not  care  for  Carlo w."  She 
turned  away.  Come." 

"Where?" 

"It  is  my  turn  to  conclude  the  interview.  You 
remember,  the  last  time  it  was  you  who —  She 
broke  off,  shuddering,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands.  "Ah,  that!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  did  not 
think — I  did  not  mean  to  speak  of  that  miserable, 
miserable  night.  And  7  to  be  harsh  with  you  for 
not  caring  to  go  back  to  Carlow!" 

"Your  harshness,"  he  laughed.  "A  waft  of 
eider." 

"We  must  go,"  she  said.  He  did  not  move,  but 
sat  staring  at  her  like  a  thirsty  man  drinking. 

With  an  impulsive  and  pretty  gesture  she  reached 
out  her  hand  to  him.  Her  little,  white  glove  trem 
bled  in  the  night  before  his  eyes,  and  his  heart  leaped 
to  meet  its  sudden  sweet  generosity ;  his  thin  fingers 
closed  over  it  as  he  rose,  and  then  that  hand  he  had 
likened  to  a  white  butterfly  lay  warm  and  light  and 
quiet  in  his  own.  And  as  they  had  so  often  stood 
together  in  their  short  day  and  their  two  nights  of 
the  moon,  so  now  again  they  stood  with  a  serenad- 


398  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

ing  silence  between  them.  A  plaintive  waltz-refrain 
from  the  house  ran  through  the  blue  woof  of  starlit 
air  as  a  sad-colored  thread  through  the  tapestry  of 
night;  they  heard  the  mellow  croon  of  the  'cello  and 
the  silver  plaints  of  violins,  the  chiming  harp,  and  the 
triangle  bells,  all  woven  into  a  minor  strain  of  dance- 
music  that  beat  gently  upon  their  ears  with  such 
suggestion  of  the  past,  that,  as  by  some  witchcraft 
of  hearing,  they  listened  to  music  made  for  lovers 
dancing,  and  lovers  listening,  a  hundred  years  ago. 

"I  care  for  only  one  thing  in  this  world,"  he  said, 
tremulously.  "Have  I  lost  it?  I  didn't  mean  to 
ask  you,  that  last  night,  although  you  answered. 
Have  I  no  chance?  Is  it  still  the  same?  Do  I  come 
too  late?" 

The  butterfly  fluttered  in  his  hand  and  then  away. 

She  drew  back  and  looked  at  him  a  moment. 

"There  is  one  thing  you  must  always  under 
stand,"  she  said  gently,  "and  that  is  that  a  woman 
can  be  grateful.  I  give  you  all  the  gratitude  there  is 
in  me,  and  I  think  I  have  a  great  deal;  it  is  all  yours. 
Will  you  always  remember  that?" 

"Gratitude?     What    can    there " 

"You  do  not  understand  now,  but  some  day  you 
will.  I  ask  you  to  remember  that  my  every  act  and 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  399 

thought  which  bore  reference  to  you — and  there 
have  been  many — came  from  the  purest  gratitude. 
Although  you  do  not  see  it  now,  will  you  promise 
to  believe  it?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  simply. 

"For  the  rest —  She  paused.  "For  the  rest — 
I  do  not  love  you." 

He  bowed  his  head  and  did  not  lift  it. 

"Do  you  understand?"  she  asked. 

"I  understand,"  he  answered,  quietly. 

She  looked  at  him  long,  and  then,  suddenly,  her 
hand  to  her  heart,  gave  a  little,  pitying,  tender  cry 
and  moved  toward  him  At  this  he  raised  his  head 
and  smiled  sadly.  "No;  don't  you  mind,"  he  said. 
"It's  all  right.  I  was  such  a  cad  the  other  time  I 
needed  to  be  told;  I  was  so  entirely  silly  about  it,  I 
couldn't  face  the  others  to  tell  them  good-night,  and 
I  left  you  out  there  to  go  in  to  them  alone.  I  didn  't 
realize,  for  my  manners  were  all  gone.  I'd  lived  in 
a  kind  of  stupor,  I  think,  for  a  long  time;  then  being 
with  you  was  like  a  dream,  and  the  sudden  waking 
was  too  much  for  me.  I've  been  ashamed  often, 
since,  in  thinking  of  it — and  I  was  well  punished  for 
not  taking  you  in.  I  thought  only  of  myself,  and 
I  behaved  like  a  whining,  unbalanced  boy.  But  I 


400  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

had  whined  from  the  moment  I  met  you,  because  I 
was  sickly  with  egoism  and  loneliness  and  self-pity. 
I'm  keeping  you  from  the  dancing.  Won't  you  let 
me  take  you  back  to  the  house?" 

A  commanding  and  querulous  contralto  voice  was 
heard  behind  them,  and  a  dim,  majestic  figure  ap 
peared  under  the  Japanese  lantern. 

"Helen?" 

The  girl  turned  quickly.     "Yes,  mamma." 

"May  I  ask  you  to  return  to  the  club-house  for 
supper  with  me?  Your  father  has  been  very  much 
worried  about  you.  We  have  all  been  looking  for 

you." 

"Mamma,  this  is  Mr.  Harkless." 

"How  do  you  do?"  The  lady  murmured  this 
much  so  far  under  her  breath  that  the  words  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  anything  else — most  plaus 
ibly,  perhaps,  for,  "Who  cares  if  it  is?" — nor  further 
did  she  acknowledge  John's  profound  inclination. 
Frigidity  and  complaint  of  ill-usage  made  a  glamour 
in  every  fold  of  her  expensive  garments;  she  was 
large  and  troubled  and  severe.  A  second  figure 
emerged  from  behind  her  and  bowed  with  the  suave 
dignity  that  belonged  to  Brainard  Macauley.  "Mr. 
Macauley  has  asked  to  sit  at  our  table,"  Mrs.  Sher- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  401 

wood  said  to  Helen.  "May  I  beg  you  to  come  at 
once?  Your  father  is  holding  places  for  us." 

"Certainly,"  she  answered.  "I  will  follow  you 
with  Mr.  Harkless." 

"I  think  Mr.  Harkless  will  excuse  you,"  said  the 
elder  lady.  "He  has  an  engagement.  Mr.  Mere 
dith  has  been  looking  everywhere  for  him  to  take 
Miss  Hinsdale  out  to  supper." 

"Good-night,  Miss  Sherwood,"  said  John  in  a 
cheerful  voice.  "I  thank  you  for  sitting  out  the 
dance  with  me." 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  and  gave  him  her  hand. 
"I'm  so  sorry  I  shan't  see  you  again;  I  am  only  in 
Rouen  for  this  evening,  or  I  should  ask  you  to  come 
to  see  me.  I  am  leaving  to-morrow  morning. 
Good-night.- — Yes,  mamma." 

The  three  figures  went  toward  the  bright  lights 
of  the  club-house.  She  was  leaning  on  Macauley's 
arm  and  chatting  gaily,  smiling  up  at  him  brightly. 
John  watched  her  till  she  was  lost  in  the  throng  on 
the  veranda.  There,  in  the  lights,  where  waiters 
were  arranging  little  tables,  every  one  was  talking 
and  moving  about,  noisily,  good-humored  and  happy. 
There  was  a  flourish  of  violins,  and  then  the  orches 
tra  swung  into  a  rampant  march  that  pranced  like 


402  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

uncurbed  cavalry;  it  stirred  the  blood  of  old  men 
with  militant  bugle  calls  and  blast  of  horns;  it  might 
have  heralded  the  chariot  of  a  flamboyant  war  god 
rioting  out  of  sunrise,  plumed  with  youth.  Some 
quite  young  men  on  the  veranda  made  as  if  they 
were  restive  horses  champing  at  the  bit  and  heading 
a  procession,  and,  from  a  group  near  by,  loud  laugh 
ter  pealed. 

John  Harkless  lifted  to  his  face  the  hand  that  had 
held  hers;  there  was  the  faint  perfume  of  her  glove. 
He  kissed  his  own  hand.  Then  he  put  that  hand 
and  the  other  to  his  forehead,  and  sank  into  her 
chair. 

"Let  me  get  back,"  he  said.  "Let  me  get  back 
to  Plattville,  where  I  belong." 

Tom  Meredith  came  calling  him.  "Harkless? 
John  Harkless?" 

"Here  I   am,   Tom." 

"Come  along,  boy.  What  on  earth  are  you  doing 
out  here  all  alone?  I  thought  you  were  with — I 
thought  some  people  were  with  you.  You're  bored 
to  death,  I  know;  but  come  along  and  be  bored 
some  more,  because  I  promised  to  bring  you  in  for 
supper.  Then  we'll  go  home.  They've  saved  a 
place  for  you  by  Miss  Hinsdale." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  403 

"Very  well,  lad,"  answered  Harkless,  and  put  his 
hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  "Thank  you." 

The  next  day  he  could  not  leave  his  bed;  his 
wounds  were  feverish  and  his  weakness  had  re 
turned.  Meredith  was  shaken  with  remorse  be 
cause  he  had  let  him  wander  around  in  the  damp 
night  air  with  no  one  to  look  after  him. 


CHAPTER  XVH 

HELEN'S  TOAST 

JUDGE  BRISCOE  was  sitting  out  under  the 
afternoon  sky  with  his  chair  tilted  back  and 
his  feet  propped  against  the  steps.     His  coat 
was  off,  and  Minnie  sat  near  at  hand  sewing  a  button 
on  the  garment  for  him,  and  she  wore  that  dreamy 
glaze  that  comes  over  women's  eyes  when  they  sew 
for  other  people. 

From  the  interior  of  the  house  rose  and  fell  the 
murmur  of  a  number  of  voices  engaged  in  a  conver 
sation,  which,  for  a  time,  seemed  to  consist  of  de 
jected  monosyllables;  but  presently  the  judge  and 
Minnie  heard  Helen's  voice,  clear,  soft,  and  trem 
bling  a  little  with  excitement.  She  talked  only  two 
or  three  minutes,  but  what  she  said  stirred  up  a  great 
commotion.  All  the  voices  burst  forth  at  once  in 
ejaculations — almost  shouts;  but  presently  they 
were  again  subdued  and  still,  except  for  the  single 
soft  one,  which  held  forth  more  quietly,  but  with  a 
deeper  agitation,  than  any  of  the  others. 

404 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  405 

"You  needn't  try  to  bamboozle  me,"  said  the 
judge  in  a  covert  tone  to  his  daughter,  and  with  a 
glance  at  the  parlor  window,  whence  now  issued  the 
rumble  of  Warren  Smith's  basso.  "I  tell  you  that 
girl  would  follow  John  Harkless  to  Jericho." 

Minnie  shook  her  head  mysteriously,  and  bit  a 
thread  with  a  vague  frown. 

"Well,  why  not?"  asked  the  judge  crossly. 

"Why  wouldn't  she  have  him,  then?" 

"Well,  who  knows  he's  asked  her  yet?" 

Minnie  screamed  derisively  at  the  density  of  man. 
"What  made  him  run  off  that  way,  the  night  he  was 
hurt?  Why  didn't  he  come  back  in  the  house  with 
her?" 

"Pshaw!" 

"Don't  you  suppose  a  woman  understands?" 

"Meaning  that  you  know  more  about  it  than  I 
do,  I  presume,"  grunted  the  old  gentleman. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  replied,  smiling  benignantly 
upon  him. 

"Did  she  tell  you?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"No,  no.  I  guess  the  truth  is  that  women  don't 
know  more  than  men  so  much  as  they  see  more; 
they  understand  more  without  having  to  read  about 
it." 


406  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"That's  the  way  of  it,  is  it?"  he  laughed.  "Well, 
it  don't  make  any  difference,  she'll  have  him  some 
time." 

"No,   father;  it's  only  gratitude." 

"Gratitude!"  The  judge  snorted  scornfully. 
"Girls  don't  do  as  much  as  she's  done  for  him  out 
of  gratitude.  Look  what  she's  doing;  not  only  run 
ning  the  'Herald'  for  him,  but  making  it  a  daily, 
and  a  good  daily  at  that.  First  time  I  saw  her  I 
knew  right  away  she  was  the  smartest  girl  I  ever  laid 
eyes  on; — I  expect  she  must  have  got  it  from  her 
mother.  Gratitude!  Pooh!  Look  how  she's  stud 
ied  his  interests,  and  watched  like  a  cat  for  chances 
for  him  in  everything.  Didn't  she  get  him  into 
Eph  Watts's  company?  She  talked  to  Watts  and 
the'other  fellows,  day  after  day,  and  drove  around 
their  leased  land  with  'em,  and  studied  it  up,  and 
got  on  the  inside,  and  made  him  buy.  Now,  if  they 
strike  it — and  she's  sure  they  will,  and  I'm  sure 
she  knows  when  to  have  faith  in  a  thing — why, 
they'll  sell  out  to  the  Standard,  and  they  can 
all  quit  work  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  if  they 
want  to;  and  Harkless  gets  as  much  as  any 
without  lifting  a  finger,  all  because  he  had  a  little 
money — mighty  little,  too — laid  up  in  bank  and  a 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  407 

girl  that  saw  where  to  put  it.  She  did  that  for 
him,  didn't  she?" 

"Don't  you  see  what  fun  it's  been  for  her?"  re 
turned  Minnie.  "She's  been  having  the  best  time 
she  ever  had;  I  never  knew  any  one  half  so  happy." 

"Yes;  she  went  up  and  saw  him  at  that  party,  and 
she  knows  he's  still  thinking  about  her.  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised  if  he  asked  her  then,  and  that's  what 
makes  her  so  gay." 

"Well,  she  couldn't  have  said  *yes>'  because  he 
went  back  to  his  bed  the  next  day,  and  he's  been 
there  most  of  the  time  since." 

"Pshaw!  He  wasn't  over  his  injuries,  and  he 
was  weak  and  got  malaria." 

"Well,  she  couldn't  be  so  happy  while  he's  sick, 
if  she  cared  very  much  about  him." 

"He's  not  very  sick.  She's  happy  because  she's 
working  for  him,  and  she  knows  his  illness  isn't  seri 
ous.  He'll  be  a  well  man  when  she  says  the  word. 
He's  love-sick,  that's  what  he  is;  I  never  saw  a  man 
so  taken  down  with  it  in  my  life." 

"Then  it  isn't  malaria?"  Minnie  said,  with  a  smile 
of  some  superiority. 

"You're  just  like  your  poor  mother,"  the  old 
gentleman  answered,  growing  rather  red.  "She 


408  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

never  could  learn  to  argue.  What  I  say  is  that 
Helen  cares  about  him,  whether  she  says  she  does 
or  not,  whether  she  acts  like  it  or  not — or 
whether  she  thinks  she  does  or  not,"  he  added 
irascibly.  "Do  you  know  what  she's  doing  for  him 
to-day?" 

"Not  exactly." 

"Well,  when  they  were  talking  together  at  that 
party,  he  said  something  that  made  her  think  he  was 
anxious  to  get  away  from  Plattville — you're  not  to 
repeat  this,  child;  she  told  me,  relying  on  my  dis 
cretion." 

"Well?" 

"Do  you  know  why  she's  got  these  men  to  come 
here  to-day  to  meet  her — Warren  Smith  and  Landis 
and  Horner,  and  Bos  well  and  young  Keating  of 
Amo,  and  Tom  Martin  and  those  two  fellows  from 
Gaines  County?" 

"Something  about  politics,  isn't  it?" 

"'Something  about  politics!"1  he  echoed.  "I 
should  say  it  is!  Wait  till  it's  done,  and  this  even 
ing  I'll  tell  you — if  you  can  keep  a  secret." 

Minnie  set  her  work-basket  on  the  steps.  "Oh, 
I  guess  I  can  keep  a  secret,"  she  said.  "But  it  won't 
make  any  difference." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  409 

"You  mean  you've  said  it,  and  you'll  stick  to  it 
that  it's  gratitude  till  their  wedding  day." 

"She  knows  he  gave  her  father  something  to  do, 
and  helped  him  in  other  ways,  when  no  one  else 
did." 

"I  know  all  about  that.  She  reproaches  herself 
for  having  neglected  Fisbee  while  a  stranger  took 
care  of  him,  and  saved  him  from  starving — and 
worse.  She's  unreasonable  about  it;  she  didn't 
know  he  was  in  want  till  long  after.  That's  just  like 
Fisbee,  to  tell  her,  afterwards.  He  didn't  tell  her 
how  low  he  got;  but  he  hinted  at  it  to  her,  and  I 
guess  she  understood;  I  gathered  that  much  from 
him.  Of  course  she's  grateful,  but  gratefulness 
don't  account  for  everything." 

"Yes    it    does." 

"Well,  I  never  expected  to  have  the  last  word 
with  a  woman." 

"Well,  you  needn't,"  said  Minnie. 

"I  don't.  I  never  do,"  he  retorted.  She  did  not 
answer,  but  hummed  a  little  tune  and  looked  up  at 
the  tree-tops. 

Warren  Smith  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
"Judge,"  he  said,  "will  you  step  inside?  We  need 
you." 


410  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Briscoe  nodded  and  rose  at  once.  As  he  reached 
the  door,  Minnie  said  in  a  piercing  whisper: 

"It's  hard  to  be  sure  about  her,  but  I'm  right;  it's 
gratitude." 

"There,"  he  replied,  chuckling,  "I  thought  I 
shouldn't  have  the  last  word."  Minnie  began  to 
sing,  and  the  judge,  after  standing  in  the  doorway 
till  he  was  again  summoned  from  within,  slowly 
retired. 

Briscoe  had  persisted  in  his  own  explanation  of 
Helen's  gaiety;  nevertheless  he  did  not  question  his 
daughter's  assumption  that  the  young  lady  was  en 
joying  her  career  in  Carlow.  She  was  free  as  a  bird 
to  go  and  come,  and  her  duties  and  pleasures  ran 
together  in  a  happy  excitement.  Her  hands  were 
full  of  work,  but  she  sought  and  increased  new  tasks, 
and  performed  them  also.  She  came  to  Carlow  as 
unused  to  the  soil  as  was  Harkless  on  his  arrival, 
and  her  educational  equipment  for  the  work  was  far 
less  than  his;  her  experience,  nothing.  But  both 
were  native  to  the  State;  and  the  genius  of  the 
American  is  adaptability,  and  both  were  sprung 
from  pioneers  whose  means  of  life  depended  on  that 
quality. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  411 

There  are,  here  and  there,  excrescent  individuals 
who,  through  stock  decadence,  or  their  inability  to 
comprehend  republican  conditions,  are  not  assimi 
lated  by  the  body  of  the  country;  but  many  of  these 
are  imports,  while  some  are  exports.  Our  foreign- 
born  agitators  now  and  then  find  themselves  re 
moved  by  the  police  to  institutions  of  routine,  while 
the  romantic  innocents  who  set  up  crests  in  the  face 
of  an  unimpressionable  democracy  are  apt  to  be 
lured  by  their  own  curious  ambitions,  or  those  of 
their  women-folk,  to  spend  a  great  part  of  their 
time  in  or  about  the  villas  of  Albion,  thus  paid  for 
its  perfidy;  and,  although  the  anarchists  and  the 
bubble-hunters  make  a  noise,  it  is  enormously  out 
of  proportion  to  their  number,  which  is  relatively 
very  small,  and  neither  the  imported  nor  the  ex 
ported  article  can  be  taken  as  characteristic  of  our 
country.  For  the  American  is  one  who  soon  fits 
any  place,  or  into  any  shaped  hole  in  America,  wrhere 
you  can  set  him  down.  It  may  be  that  without 
going  so  far  as  to  suggest  the  halls  of  the  great  and 
good  and  rich,  one  might  mention  a  number  of 
houses  of  entertainment  for  man  and  beast  in  this 
country,  in  which  Mr.  Martin  of  the  Plattville  Dry 
Goods  Emporium  would  find  himself  little  at  ease. 


412  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

But  even  in  the  extreme  case,  if  Mr.  Martin  were 
given  his  choice  of  being  burned  to  death,  or  drowned, 
or  of  spending  a  month  at  the  most  stupendously 
embellished  tavern  located  in  our  possessions,  and 
supposing  him  to  have  chosen  the  third  alternate, 
it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  grown  almost 
accustomed  to  his  surroundings  before  he  died; 
and  if  he  survived  the  month,  we  may  even  fancy 
him  really  enjoying  moments  of  conversation  with 
the  night-clerks. 

As  Mr.  Parker  observed,  Miss  Sherwood  did  not 
do  the  Grand  Duchess,  giving  the  Carlow  tenants  a 
treat.  She  felt  no  duchess  symptoms  within  herself, 
and  though,  of  course,  she  had  various  manners 
tucked  away  to  wear  as  one  suits  garments  to  occa 
sions — and  it  was  a  Rouen  "party-gown"  where 
with  she  chose  to  abash  poor  John  Harkless  at  their 
meeting — here  in  Carlow,  she  was  a  woman  of  af 
fairs,  lively,  shrewd,  engaging,  capable;  she  was  her 
self  (at  least  she  was  that  side  of  herself).  And  it 
should  be  explained  that  Harkless  had  based  his 
calumny  regarding  the  tariff  on  a  paragraph  or  two 
that  crept  inadvertently  into  an  otherwise  states 
manlike  article,  and  that  "H.  Fisbee"  understood 
the  tariff  as  well  as  any  woman  who  ever  lived. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  413 

But  the  tariff  inspired  no  more  articles  from  that 
pen. 

Rodney  McCune  had  lifted  his  head,  and  those 
who  had  followed  his  stricken  enemy  felt  that  the 
cause  was  lost,  without  the  leader.  The  old  ring 
that  the  "Herald"  had  crushed  was  a  ring  once 
more,  and  the  heelers  had  rallied—  ' '  the  boys  were 
in  line  again."  The  work  had  been  done  quietly, 
and  Halloway  was  already  beaten,  and  beaten  badly. 
John  Harkless  lay  sick,  and  Rodney  McCune  would 
sit  in  Congress,  for  the  nomination  meant  election. 
But  one  day  the  Harkless  forces,  demoralized, 
broken,  almost  hopeless,  woke  up  to  find  that  they 
had  a  leader.  Many  of  them  were  content  with  the 
belief  that  this  was  a  young  lawyer  named  Keating, 
who  had  risen  up  in  Amo;  but  Mr.  Keating  himself 
had  a  different  impression. 

Helen  was  a  little  nervous,  and  very  much  excited, 
over  the  political  conference  at  Judge  Briscoe's. 
She  planned  it  with  careful  diplomacy,  and  arranged 
the  details  with  a  fine  sense  of  the  dramatic.  There 
was  a  suggestion  she  desired  to  have  made  in  this 
meeting,  which  she  wished  should  emanate  from  the 
Amo  and  Gaines  County  people,  instead  of  proceed 
ing  from  Carlow — for  she  thought  it  better  to  make 


414  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

the  outsiders  believe  her  idea  an  inspiration  of  their 
own — so  she  made  a  little  comedy  and  provided  for 
Briscoe's  entrance  at  an  effective  moment.  The 
judge  was  a  substantial  influence,  strong  in  the 
councils, of  his  party  when  he  chose  to  be;  and 
though  of  late  years  he  had  contented  himself  with 
voting  at  the  polls,  every  one  knew  what  weight  he 
carried  when  he  saw  fit  to  bestir  himself. 

When  he  entered  the  parlor,  he  found  the  poli 
ticians  in  a  state  of  subdued  excitement.  Helen  sat 
by  the  window,  blushing,  and  talking  eagerly  to  old 
Fisbee.  One  of  the  gentlemen  from  Gaines  County 
was  walking  about  the  room  exclaiming,  "A  glori 
ous  conception!  A  glorious  conception!"  address 
ing  the  bric-a-brac,  apparently.  (He  thought  the 
conception  his  own.)  Mr.  Martin  was  tugging  at 
his  beard  and  whispering  to  Landis  and  Horner,  and 
the  two  Amo  men  were  consulting  in  a  corner,  but 
as  the  judge  came  in,  one  of  them  turned  and  said 
loudly,  "That's  the  man." 

"What  man  am  I,  Keating?"  asked  Briscoe, 
cheerily. 

"We  better  explain,  I  guess,"  answered  the  other; 
and  turning  to  his  compatriot:  "You  tell  him,  Bos- 
well." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  415 

"Well — it's  this  way — "  said  Boswell,  and  came 
at  once  to  an  awkward  pause,  turning  aside  sheep 
ishly  and  unable  to  proceed. 

"So  that's  the  way  of  it,  is  it?"  said  the  old  gen 
tleman. 

Helen  laughed  cheerfully,  and  looked  about  her 
with  a  courageous  and  encouraging  eye.  "It  is 
embarrassing,"  she  said.  "Judge  Briscoe,  we  are 
contemplating  'a  piece  of  the  blackest  treachery  and 
chicanery.'  We  are  going  to  give  Mr.  Halloway 
the — the  go-by!"  The  embarrassment  fell  away, 
and  everybody  began  to  talk  at  once. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,"  said  the  judge;  "let's  get 
at  it  straight.  What  do  you  want  with  me?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  volunteered  Keating.  "You  see, 
the  boys  are  getting  in  line  again  for  this  conven 
tion.  They  are  the  old  file  that  used  to  rule  the 
roost  before  the  'Herald'  got  too  strong  for  them, 
and  they  rely  on  Mr.  Harkless's  being  sick  to  beat 
Kedge  Halloway  with  that  Gaines  County  man, 
McCune.  Now,  none  of  us  here  want  Rod  McCune 
I  guess.  We  had  trouble  enough  once  with  him 
and  his  heelers,  and  now  that  Mr.  Harkless  is  down, 
they've  taken  advantage  of  it  to  raise  a  revolution: 
Rod  McCune  for  Congress!  He's  a  dirty-hearted 


416  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

swindler — I  hope  Miss  Sherwood  will  pardon  the 
strong  expression — and  everybody  thought  the 
'Herald'  had  driven  him  out  of  politics,  though  it 
never  told  how  it  did  it;  but  he's  up  on  top  again. 
Now,  the  question  is  to  beat  him.  We  hold  the 
committees,  but  the  boys  have  been  fighting  the 
committees — call  'em  the  'Harkless  Ring,'  and 
never  understood  that  the  'Herald'  would  have 
turned  us  down  in  a  second  if  it  thought  we  weren't 
straight.  Well,  we  saw  a  week  ago  that  Kedge  Hal 
lo  way  was  going  to  lose  to  McCune;  we  figured  it 
out  pretty  exactly,  and  there  ain't  a  ray  of  hope  for 
Kedge.  We  wrote  to  Mr.  Harkless  about  it,  and 
asked  him  to  come  down — if  he'd  been  on  the 
ground  last  Monday  and  had  begun  to  work,  I  don 't 
say  but  what  his  personal  influence  might  have 
saved  Halloway — but  a  friend  of  his,  where  he's 
staying,  answered  the  letter:. said  Mr.  Harkless  was 
down  with  a  relapse  and  was  very  fretful;  and  he'd 
taken  the  liberty  of  reading  the  letter  and  tem 
porarily  suppressing  it  under  doctor's  orders;  they 
were  afraid  he'd  come,  sick  as  he  was,  from  a  sense 
of  duty,  and  asked  us  to  withdraw  the  letter,  and 
referred  us  to  Mr.  Harkless's  representative  on  the 
'Herald.'  So  we  applied  here  to  Miss  Sherwood, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  417 

and  that's  why  we  had  this  meeting.  Now,  Hallo- 
way  is  honest — everybody  knows  that — and  I  don't 
say  but  what  he's  been  the  best  available  material 
Mr.  Harkless  had  to  send  to  Washington;  but  he 
ain't  any  too  bright — 

Mr.  Martin  interrupted  the  speaker.  "I  reckon, 
maybe,  you  never  heard  that  lecture  of  his  on  the 
'Past,  Present,  and  Future'?" 

"Besides  that,"  Keating  continued,  "Halloway 
has  had  it  long  enough,  and  he's  got  enough  glory 
out  of  it,  and,  except  for  getting  beat  by  Rod 
McCune,  I  believe  he'd  almost  as  soon  give  it  up. 
Well,  we  discussed  all  this  and  that,  and  couldn't 
come  to  any  conclusion.  We  didn't  want  to  keep 
on  with  a  losing  fight  if  there  was  any  way  to  put 
up  a  winner,  though  of  course  we  all  recognized 
that  Mr.  Harkless  would  want  us  to  support  Kedge 
to  the  death,  and  that's  what  he'd  do  if  he  was  on 
the  ground.  But  Miss  Sherwood  mentioned  that 
she'd  had  one  note  since  his  last  illness  began,  and 
he'd  entrusted  her  and  her  associates  on  the  paper 
with  the  entire  policy,  and  she  would  take  the  respon 
sibility  for  anything  we  determined  on.  Mr.  Smith 
said  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  give  up  Halloway 
and  get  a  man  that  could  beat  McCune;  Kedge 


418  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

would  recognize  it  himself,  that  that  was  the  only 
thing  to  do,  and  he  could  retire  gracefully.  Miss 
Sherwood  said  she  was  still  more  or  less  a  stranger, 
and  asked  what  man  we  could  find  who  was  strong 
enough  to  do  it  by  popularity  alone  and  who  was 
also  a  man  we  wanted;  somebody  that  had  worked 
a  good  deal,  but  had  never  had  any  office.  It  was 
to  such  a  man  she  could  promise  the  'Herald's' 
support,  as  for  a  time  the  paper  was  being  operated 
almost  independently,  it  might  be  said,  of  Mr. 
Harkless.  Well,  I  expect  it  came  to  all  of  us  at  the 
same  time,  but  it  was  Mr.  Bence  here  that  said  it 
first." 

Mr.  Bence  was  the  gentleman  who  had  walked 
about  saying  "A  glorious  conception,"  and  he  now 
thrust  one  hand  into  his  breast  and  extended  the 
other  in  a  wide  gesture,  and  looked  as  impressive 
as  a  very  young  man  with  white  eyebrows  can 
look. 

"The  name  of  Harkless,"  he  said  abruptly,  "the 
name  of  Harkless  will  sweep  the  convention  like  the 
fire  of  a  Western  prairie;  the  name  of  Harkless  will 
thunder  over  their  astonished  heads  and  strike  a 
peal  of  joy  bells  in  every  home  in  the  district;  it  will 
re-echo  in  the  corridors  of  posterity  and  teem  with 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  419 

prosperity  like  a  mighty  river.  The  name  of  Hark- 
less  will  reverberate  in  that  convention  hall,  and 
they  shall  sit  ashamed." 

"Harkless!"  exclaimed  the  judge.  "Why  didn't 
some  one  think  of  that  long  ago?" 

"Then  you  approve?"  asked  Keating. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  do!" 

The  Amo  man  shook  hands  with  him.  "We'll 
swim  out,"  he  exclaimed.  "It  will  be  the  same 
everywhere.  A  lot  of  the  old  crowd  themselves  will 
be  swept  along  with  us  when  we  make  our  nomina 
tion.  People  feel  that  that  Cross-Roads  business 
ought  never  to  have  been  allowed  to  happen,  and 
they'd  like  to  make  it  up  to  him  some  way.  There 
are  just  two  difficulties,  Halloway  and  Mr.  Harkless 
himself.  It's  a  sure  thing  that  he  wouldn't  come  out 
against  Kedge  and  that  he'd  refuse  to  let  his  name 
be  used  against  him.  Therefore,  we've  got  to  keep 
it  quiet  from  him;  the  whole  thing  has  to  be  worked 
quietly.  The  McCune  folks  were  quiet  until  they 
thought  they  were  sure;  we've  got  to  be  quieter  still. 
Well,  we've  made  out  a  plan." 

"And  a  plan  that  will  operate,"  added  Mr.  Bence. 
"For  the  name  of  Harkless  shall — "  Mr.  Keating 
interrupted  him  energetically: 


420  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"We  explain  it  to  all  the  Halloway  delegates,  you 
see,  and  to  all  the  shaky  McCune  people,  and  inter 
view  all  the  undecided  ones.  The  McCune  crowd 
may  see  them  afterwards,  but  they  can't  fix  men  in 
this  district  against  John  Harkless.  All  we've  got 
to  do  is  to  pass  the  word.  It's  all  kept  quiet,  you 
understand.  We  go  into  the  convention,  and  the 
names  of  Halloway  and  McCune  are  placed  before 
it.  Then  will  come  a  speech  naming  Harkless — and 
you  want  to  stuff  your  ears  with  cotton!  On  the 
first  ballot  Harkless  gets  the  scattering  vote  that 
was  going  to  nominate  McCune  if  we'd  let  things 
run,  and  Halloway  is  given  every  vote  he'd  have 
got  if  he'd  run  against  McCune  alone;  it's  as  a 
compliment;  it  will  help  him  see  how  things  were, 
afterwards;  and  on  the  second  ballot  his  vote  goes 
to  Harkless.  There  won't  be  any  hitch  if  we  get 
down  to  work  right  off;  it's  a  mighty  short  cam 
paign,  but  we've  got  big  chances.  Of  course,  it 
can't  be  helped  that  Halloway  has  to  be  kept  in 
the  dark;  he  won't  spend  any  money,  anyway." 

"It  looks  a  little  underhanded  at  first  glance," 
said  Warren  Smith;  "but,  as  Miss  Sherwood  said, 
you've  got  to  be  a  little  underhanded  sometimes, 
especially  when  you're  dealing  with  as  scrupulous  a 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  421 

man  as  John  Harkless.  But  it's  a  perfectly  honest 
deal,  and  it  will  be  all  right  with  him  when  he  finds 
it's  all  over  and  he's  nominated." 

"It's  a  plain  case,"  added  Boswell.  "We  want 
him,  and  we've  got  to  have  him." 

"There's  one  danger,"  Mr.  Keating  continued. 
"Kedge  Halloway  is  honest,  but  I  believe  he's 
selfish  enough  to  disturb  his  best  friend's  death 
bed  for  his  own  ends,  and  it's  not  unlikely  that  he 
will  get  nervous  towards  the  last  and  be  telegraph 
ing  Harkless  to  have  himself  carried  on  a  cot  to  the 
convention  to  save  him.  That  wouldn't  do  at  all, 
of  course,  and  Miss  Sherwood  thinks  maybe  there'd 
be  less  danger  if  we  set  the  convention  a  little  ahead 
of  the  day  appointed.  It's  dangerous,  because  it 
shortens  our  time;  but  we  can  fix  it  for  three  days 
before  the  day  we'd  settled  on,  and  that  will  bring 
it  to  September  7th.  What  we  want  of  you,  judge, 
is  to  go  to  the  convention  as  a  delegate,  and  make 
the  nominating  speech  for  Mr.  Harkless.  Will  you 
do  it?" 

"Do  it?"  cried  the  old  man,  and  he  struck  the 
table  a  resounding  blow  with  his  big  fist.  "Do  it? 
I'd  walk  from  here  to  Rouen  and  back  again  to  do 
it!" 


422  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

They  were  all  on  their  feet  at  this,  and  they 
pressed  forward  to  shake  Briscoe's  hand,  congra 
tulating  him  and  each  other  as  though  they  were 
already  victorious.  Mr.  Martin  bent  over  Helen 
and  asked  her  if  she  minded  shaking  hands  with  a 
man  who  had  voted  for  Shem  at  the  first  election 
in  the  Ark. 

"I  thought  I'd  rightly  ort  to  thank  you  for 
finishin'  off  Kedge  Halloway,"  he  added.  "I  made 
up  my  mind  I'd  never  vote  for  him  again,  the  night 
he  killed  that  intellectual  insect  of  his." 

"Intellectual  insect,  Mr.  Martin?"  she  asked, 
puzzled. 

He  sighed.  "The  recollection  never  quits  ha'ntin' 
me.  I  reckon  I  haven't  had  a  restful  night  since 
June.  Maybe  you  don't  remember  his  lecture." 

"Oh,  but  I  do,"  she  laughed;  "and  I  remember 
the  story  of  the  fly,  vividly." 

"I  never  was  jest  what  you  might  exactly  call 
gushin'  over  Kedge,"  Mr.  Martin  drawled.  "He 
doesn't  strike  me  as  havin'  many  ideas,  precisely — 
he  had  kind  of  a  symptom  of  one  once,  that  he 
caught  from  Harkless,  but  it  didn't  take;  it  sloshed 
around  in  his  mind  and  never  really  come  out  on 
him.  I  always  thought  his  brain  was  sort  of  syrupy. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  423 

Harkless  thought  there  was  fruit  in  it,  and  I  reckon 
there  is;  but  some  way  it  never  seems  to  jell." 

"Go  on,"  said  Helen  gayly.  "I  want  to  hear 
him  abused.  It  helps  me  to  feel  less  mean  about 
the  way  we  are  treating  him." 

"Yes;  I'm  slickin'  over  my  conscience,  too.  I 
feel  awnrier  about  it  because  he  done  me  a  good 
turn  once,  in  the  Hayes  and  Wheeler  campaign. 
I  went  to  a  meetin'  to  hear  him  speak,  and  he  got 
sick  and  couldn't." 

Warren  Smith  addressed  the  company.  "Well,  is 
this  all  for  the  present?"  he  asked.  "Is  everything 
settled?" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Keating.  "I'd  like  to 
hear  from  the  'Herald'  about  its  policy,  if  Miss 
Sherwood  will  tell  us." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  answered.  "It  will  be  very 
simple.  Don't  you  think  there  is  only  one  course 
to  pursue?  We  will  advocate  no  one  very  energet 
ically,  but  we  will  print  as  much  of  the  truth  about 
Mr.  McCune  as  we  can,  with  delicacy  and  honor,  in 
this  case,  but,  as  I  understand  it,  the  work  is  almost 
all  to  be  done  amongst  the  delegates.  We  shall 
not  mention  our  plan  at  all — but — but,  when  the 
convention  is  over,  and  he  is  nominated,  we  will  get 


424  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

out  an  extra;  and  I  am  so  confident  of  your  success 
that  I'll  tell  you  now  that  the  extra  will  be  ready  the 
night  before  the  convention.  We  will  contrive  that 
Mr.  Harkless  shall  not  receive  his  copy  of  the  paper 
containing  the  notice  of  the  change  of  date,  and  I 
think  the  chance  of  his  seeing  it  in  any  Rouen  paper 
may  be  avoided.  That  is  all,  I  think." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Keating.  "That  is  certainly 
the  course  to  follow."  Every  one  nodded,  or  acqui 
esced  in  words;  and  Keating  and  Bence  came  over 
to  Helen  and  engaged  her  in  conversation.  The 
others  began  to  look  about  for  their  hats,  vaguely 
preparing  to  leave. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  judge.  "There's  no 
train  due  just  now."  And  Minnie  appeared  in  the 
doorway  with  a  big  pitcher  of  crab-apple  cider,  rich 
and  amber-hued,  sparkling,  cold,  and  redolent  of 
the  sweet-smelling  orchard  where  it  was  born. 
Behind  Miss  Briscoe  came  Mildy  Upton  with  glasses 
and  a  fat,  shaking,  four-storied  jelly-cake  on  a 
second  tray.  The  judge  passed  his  cigars  around, 
and  the  gentlemen  took  them  blithely,  then  hesi 
tatingly  held  them  in  their  fingers  and  glanced  at 
the  ladies,  uncertain  of  permission. 

"Let    me   get   you    some   matches,"    Helen   said 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  425 

quickly,  and  found  a  box  on  the  table  and  handed 
it  to  Keating.  Every  one  sat  beaming,  and  fragrant 
veils  of  smoke  soon  draped  the  room. 

"Why  do  you  call  her  'Miss  Sherwood'?"  Boswell 
whispered  in  Keating's  ear. 

"That's  her  name." 

"Ain't  she  the  daughter  of  that  old  fellow  over 
there  by  the  window?  Ain't  her  name  Fisbee?" 

"No;  she's  his  daughter,  but  her  legal  name's 
Sherwood;  she's  an  adop — 

"Great  Scott!  I  know  all  about  that.  I'd  like  to 
know  if  there's  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  this  part 
of  the  country  that  doesn't.  I  guess  it  won't  be 
Fisbee  or  Sherwood  either  very  long.  She  can  easy 
get  a  new  name,  that  lady!  And  if  she  took  a  fancy 
to  Boswell,  why,  I'm  a  bach 

"I  expect  she  won't  take  a  fancy  to  Boswell  very 
early,"  said  Keating.  "They  say  it  will  be  Harkless." 

"Go  'way,"  returned  Mr.  Boswell.  "What  do 
you  want  to  say  that  for?  Can't  you  bear  for  any 
body  to  be  happy  a  minute  or  two,  now  and  then?" 

Warren  Smith  approached  Helen  and  inquired  if 
it  would  be  asking  too  much  if  they  petitioned  her 
for  some  music;  so  she  went  to  the  piano,  and  sang 
some  darky  songs  for  them,  with  a  quaint  sugges- 


426  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

tion  of  the  dialect — two  or  three  old-fashioned  negro 
melodies  of  Foster's,  followed  by  some  rollicking 
modern  imitations  with  the  movement  and  spirit  of 
a  tinshop  falling  down  a  flight  of  stairs.  Her  audi 
ence  listened  in  delight  from  the  first;  but  the  latter 
songs  quite  overcame  them  with  pleasure  and  admi 
ration,  and  before  she  finished,  every  head  in  the 
room  wras  jogging  from  side  to  side,  and  forward 
and  back,  in  time  to  the  music,  while  every  foot 
shuffled  the  measures  on  the  carpet. 

When  the  gentlemen  from  out  of  town  discovered 
that  it  was  time  to  leave  if  they  meant  to  catch  their 
train,  Helen  called  to  them  to  wait,  and  they 
gathered  about  her. 

"Just  one  second,"  she  said,  and  she  poured  all 
the  glasses  full  to  the  brim;  then,  standing  in  the 
centre  of  the  circle  they  made  around  her,  she  said: 

"Before  you  go,  shan't  we  pledge  each  other  to 
our  success  in  this  good,  home-grown  Indiana  cider, 
that  leaves  our  heads  clear  and  our  arms  strong?  If 
you  will — then—  She  began  to  blush  furiously 
and  her  voice  trembled,  but  she  lifted  the  glass 
high  over  her  head  and  cried  bravely,  "Here's  to 
'Our  Candidate'!" 

The  big  men,  towering  over  her,  threw  back  their 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  427 

heads  and  quaffed  the  gentle  liquor  to  the  last 
drop.  Then  they  sent  up  the  first  shout  of  the 
campaign,  and  cheered  John  Harkless  till  the  rafters 
rang. 

"My  friends,"  said  Mr.  Keating,  as  he  and  Bos- 
well  and  the  men  from  Gaines  drove  away  in  Judd 
Bennett's  omnibus,  "my  friends,  here  is  where  I 
begin  the  warmest  hustling  I  ever  did.  I  want 
Harkless,  everybody  wants  him " 

"It  is  a  glorious  idea,"  said  Mr.  Bence.  "The 
name  of  Harkless " 

Keating  drowned  the  oratory.  "But  that  isn't  all. 
That  little  girl  wants  him  to  go  to  Conrgess,  and 
that  settles  it.  He  goes." 

That  evening  Minnie  and  her  father  were  strolling 
up  and  down  the  front  walk  together,  between  the 
flowered  borders. 

"Do  you  give  up?"  asked  the  judge. 

"Give  up  what?     No!"  returned  his  daughter. 

"She  hasn't  told  you?" 

"Not  yet;  she  and  Mr.  Fisbee  left  for  the  office 
right  after  those  men  went." 

"Haven't  you  discovered  what  the  'something 
about  polities'  she's  doing  for  him  is?  Did  you 
understand  what  she  meant  by  'Our  Candidate'?" 


428  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Not  exactly." 

"Did  you  see  her  blush  when  she  proposed  that 
toast?" 

"Yes.  So  would  anybody — with  all  those  men, 
and  their  eyes  hanging  out  on  their  cheeks!" 

"Pooh!  She  got  up  the  whole  show.  Do  you 
know  why?" 

"I  only  know  it's  politics." 

"Politics!"  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  and 
then,  leaning  toward  her,  he  said,  in  a  low  tone: 
"I'll  tell  you  in  confidence,  Minnie;  she's  sending 
him  to  Congress!" 

"Ah!"  she  cried  triumphantly.  "If  she  loved  him 
she  wouldn't  do  that,  would  she?" 

"Minnie!"  Briscoe  turned  upon  her  sternly.  "I 
don't  want  to  hear  any  more  talk  like  that.  It's 
the  way  with  some  papers  to  jibe  at  our  great  insti 
tutions,  and  you've  been  reading  them;  that's  the 
trouble  with  you.  The  only  criticism  any  one  has 
any  business  making  against  Congress  is  that  it's 
too  good  for  some  of  the  men  we  send  there.  Con 
gress  is  our  great  virtue,  understand;  the  congress 
men  are  our  fault." 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  like  that,"  protested  the 
girl.  "I  haven't  been  reading  any  papers  except  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  429 

'Herald.'  I  meant  why  should  she  send  him  away 
if  she  cared  about  him?" 

"She'll  go  with  him." 

"They  couldn't  both  go.  What  would  become 
of  the  'Herald'?" 

"They'd  fix  that  easy  enough;  there  are  plenty  of 
smart  young  fellows  in  Rouen  they  could  get  to  run 
it  while  they  are  in  Washington." 

"Mr.  Harkless  is  sure  to  be  elected,  is  he?" 

"He  is,  if  he's  nominated." 

"Can't  he  get  the  nomination?" 

"Get  it!  Nobody  ever  happened  to  think  of  him 
for  it  till  it  came  into  her  head;  and  the  only  thing 
I  look  to  see  standing  in  the  way  of  it  is  Harkless 
himself;  but  I  expect  we  can  leave  it  to  her  to 
manage,  and  I  guess  she  will.  She's  got  more 
diplomacy  than  Blaine.  Kedge  Halloway  is  up 
the  spout  all  right,  but  they  want  to  keep  it  quiet; 
that's  why  she  had  them  come  here  instead  of  the 
office." 

"She  wouldn't  marry  him  a  minute  sooner  because 
he  went  to  Congress,"  said  Minnie  thoughtfully. 

"You're  giving  up,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  know 
I'm  right." 

"Wait  and  see.     It  might —     No,  you're  wrong 


430  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

as  wrong  can  be!  I  wish  you  weren't.  Don't  you 
see?  You're  blind.  She  couldn't  do  all  these  things 
for  him  if  she  loved  him.  That's  the  very  proof 
itself.  I  suppose  you — well,  you  can't  under 
stand." 

"I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  he  returned.  "If  she 
doesn't,  the  rest  of  it  won't  amount  to  a  rip  with 
John  Harkless." 

"Yes,  it  will.  Nobody  could  help  liking  to  find 
himself  as  big  a  man  as  he'll  be  when  he  comes 
back  here.  Besides,  don't  you  see,  it's  her  way  of 
making  it  up  to  him  for  not  liking  him  as  much  as 
he  wants.  You  give  up,  don't  you?" 

"No,"  he  cried,  with  feeble  violence,  "I  don't. 
She'll  find  out  some  things  about  herself  when  she 
sees  him  again." 

Minnie  shook  her  head. 

There  was  a  sound  of  wheels;  the  buckboard  drew 
up  at  the  gate,  and  Helen,  returning  from  her  even 
ing's  labor,  jumped  out  lightly,  and  ran  around  to 
pat  the  horses'  heads.  "Thank  you  so  much,  Mr. 
Willetts,"  she  said  to  the  driver.  "I  know  you  will 
handle  the  two  delegates  you  are  to  look  after  as 
well  as  you  do  the  judge's  team;  and  you  ought  to, 
you  know,  because  the  delegates  are  men.  You 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  431 

dears!"  She  stroked  the  sleek  necks  of  the  colts  and 
handed  them  bunches  of  grass. 

Briscoe  came  out,  and  let  the  friendly  animals 
nose  his  shoulder  as  he  looked  gravely  down  on 
the  piquant  face  beside  him  in  the  dusk.  "Young 
lady,"  he  said,  "go  East.  Wait  till  we  get  on  to 
Washington,  and  sit  in  the  gallery,  and  see  John 
Harkless  rise  up  in  his  place,  and  hear  the  Speaker 
say:  'The  Gentleman  from  Indiana!'  I  know  the 
chills  would  go  up  and  down  my  spine,  and  I  guess 
you'd  feel  pretty  well  paid  for  your  day's  work.  I 
guess  we  all  would." 

"Aren't  you  tired,  Helen?"  asked  Minnie,  com 
ing  to  her  in  the  darkness  and  clasping  her  waist. 

"Tired?  No;  I'm  happy.  Did  you  ever  see  the 
stars  so  bright?" 

I 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   TREACHERY    OF   H.    FISBEE 

AN  Indiana  town  may  lie  asleep  a  long  time, 
but  there  always  comes  a  day  when  it 
wakes  up;  and  Plattville  had  wakened  in 
August  when  the  "Herald"  became  a  daily  and 
Eph  Watts  struck  oil.  It  was  then  that  history 
began  to  be  made.  The  "Herald"  printed  News, 
and  the  paper  was  sold  every  morning  at  stands  in 
all  the  towns  in  that  section  of  the  State.  Its  cir 
culation  tripled.  Parker  talked  of  new  presses;  two 
men  were  added  to  his  staff,  and  a  reporter  was 
brought  from  Rouen  to  join  Mr.  Fisbee.  The 
"Herald"  boomed  the  oil-field;  people  swarmed  into 
town;  the  hotel  was  crowded;  strangers  became  no 
sensation  whatever.  A  capitalist  bought  the  whole 
north  side  of  the  Square  to  erect  new  stores,  and  the 
Carlow  Bank  began  the  construction  of  a  new  bank 
building  of  Bedford  stone  on  Main  Street.  Then 
it  was  whispered,  next  affirmed,  that  the  "Herald" 
had  succeeded  in  another  of  its  enterprises,  and 

432 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  433 

Main  Street  was  to  be  asphalted.     That  was  the 
end  of  the  "old  days"  of  Plattville. 

There  was  a  man  who  had  laid  the  foundation 
upon  which  the  new  Plattville  was  to  be  built;  he 
who,  through  the  quiet  labor  of  years,  had  stamped 
his  spirit  upon  the  people,  as  their  own  was  stamped 
upon  him;  but  he  lay  sick  in  his  friend's  house  and 
did  not  care.  One  day  Meredith  found  him  propped 
up  in  bed,  reading  a  letter — reading  it  listlessly,  and 
with  a  dull  eye. 

"PLATTVILLE,  September  1st. 

"Dear  Mr.  Harkless:  Yours  of  the  30th  received.  Every  one  here 
is  very  glad  to  know  that  your  health  is  so  far  improved  as  to  admit 
of  your  writing;  and  it  is  our  strongest  hope  that  you  will  soon  be 
completely  recovered. 

"New  subscriptions  are  coming  in  at  a  slightly  advanced  rate 
since  my  last  letter;  you  will  see  they  are  distributed  over  several 
counties,  when  you  examine  the  books  on  your  return;  and  I  am 
glad  to  state  that  with  our  arrangement  for  Gainesville  the  'Herald' 
is  now  selling  every  morning  at  a  prominent  store  in  all  the  towns 
within  the  radius  we  determined  on.  Our  plan  of  offering  the  daily 
with  no  advance  on  the  price  of  the  former  tri-weekly  issue  proves 
a  success.  I  now  propose  making  the  issue  a  quarto  every  day  (at 
the  same  price)  instead  of  once  a  week.  I  think  our  experience 
warrants  the  experiment.  It  is  my  belief  that  our  present  circula 
tion  will  be  increased  forty  per  cent.  Please  advise  me  if  you  ap 
prove.  Of  course  this  would  mean  a  further  increase  of  our  working 
force,  and  we  should  have  to  bring  another  man  from  Rouen — 
possibly  two  more — but  I  think  we  need  not  fear  such  enlargements. 


434  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"I  should  tell  you  that  I  have  taken  you  at  your  word  entrusting 
me  with  the  entire  charge  of  your  interests  here,  and  I  had  the 
store-room  adjoining  the  office  put  in  shape,  and  offered  it  to  the 
telegraph  company  for  half  the  rent  they  were  paying  in  their 
former  quarters  over  the  post-office.  They  have  moved  in;  and 
this,  in  addition  to  giving  us  our  despatches  direct,  is  a  reduction  of 
expense. 

"Mr.  Watts  informs  me  that  the  Standard's  offer  is  liberal  and 
the  terms  are  settled.  The  boom  is  not  hollow,  it  is  simply  an 
awakening;  and  the  town,  so  long  a  dependent  upon  the  impetus 
of  agriculture  or  its  trade,  is  developing  a  prosperity  of  its  own  on 
other  lines  as  well.  Strangers  come  every  day;  oil  has  lubricated 
every  commercial  joint.  Contracts  have  been  let  for  three  new 
brick  business  buildings  to  be  erected  on  the  east  side  of  the  Square. 
The  value  of  your  Main  Street  frontage  will  have  doubled  by 
December,  and  possibly  you  may  see  fit  to  tear  away  the  present 
building  and  put  up  another,  instead;  the  investment  might  be 
profitable.  The  'Herald'  could  find  room  on  the  second  and  third 
floors,  and  the  first  could  be  let  to  stores. 

"I  regret  that  you  find  your  copy  of  the  paper  for  the  29th  over 
looked  in  the  mail  and  that  your  messenger  could  find  none  for 
you  at  the  newspaper  offices  in  Rouen.  Mr.  Schofield  was  given 
directions  in  regard  to  supplying  you  with  the  missing  issue  at  once. 

"I  fear  that  you  may  have  had  difficulty  in  deciphering  some  of 
my  former  missives,  as  I  was  unfamiliar  with  the  typewriter  when 
I  took  charge  of  the  'Herald';  however,  I  trust  that  you  find  my 
later  letters  more  legible. 

"The  McCune  people  are  not  worrying  us;  we  are  sure  to  defeat 
them.  The  papers  you  speak  of  were  found  by  Mr.  Parker  in  your 
trunk,  and  are  now  in  my  hands. 

"I  send  with  this  a  packet  of  communications  and  press  clippings 
indicative  of  the  success  of  the  daily,  and  in  regard  to  other  inno 
vations.  The  letters  from  women  commendatory  of  our  'Woman's 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  435 

Page,'  thanking  us  for  various  house-keeping  receipts,  etc.,  strike  me 
as  peculiarly  interesting,  as  I  admit  that  a  'Woman's  Page'  is  always 
a  difficult  matter  for  a  man  to  handle  without  absurdity. 

"Please  do  not  think  I  mean  to  plume  myself  upon  our  various 
successes;  we  attempted  our  innovations  and  enlargements  at  just 
the  right  time — a  time  which  you  had  ripened  by  years  of  work 
and  waiting,  and  at  the  moment  when  you  had  built  up  the  reputa 
tion  of  the  'Herald'  to  its  highest  point.  Everything  that  has  been 
done  is  successful  only  because  you  paved  the  way,  and  because 
every  one  knows  it  is  your  paper;  and  the  people  believe  that  what 
ever  your  paper  does  is  interesting  and  right. 

"Trusting  that  your  recovery  will  be  rapid,  I  am 
"Yours  truly, 

"H.  FISBEE." 

Harkless  dropped  the  typewritten  sheets  with  a 
sigh. 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  get  well,"  he  said  wearily. 

"Yes,"  said  Meredith,  "I  think  you  ought;  but 
you're  chock  full  of  malaria  and  fever  and  all  kinds 
of  meanness,  and " 

"You  'tend  to  your  own  troubles,"  returned  the 
other,  with  an  imitation  of  liveliness.  "I — I  don't 
think  it  interests  me  much,"  he  said  querulously. 
He  was  often  querulous  of  late,  and  it  frightened 
Tom.  "I'm  just  tired.  I  am  strong  enough — that 
is,  I  think  I  am  till  I  try  to  move  around,  and  then 
I'm  like  a  log,  and  a  lethargy  gets  me — that's  it;  I 
don't  think  it's  malaria;  it's  lethargy." 


436  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Lethargy  comes  from  malaria." 

"It's  the  other  way  with  me.  I'd  be  all  right  if 
I  only  could  get  over  this — this  tiredness.  Let  me 
have  that  pencil  and  pad,  will  you,  please,  Tom?" 

He  set  the  pad  on  his  knee,  and  began  to  write 
languidly: 

"RorEN,  September  9d. 

"Dear  Ifr.  Fisbee:  Yours  of  the  1st  to  hand.  I  entirely  approve 
all  arrangements  you  have  made.  I  think  you  understand  that  I 
wish  you  to  regard  everything  as  in  your  own  hands.  You  are  the 
editor  of  the  'Herald'  and  have  the  sole  responsibility  for  every 
thing,  including  policy,  until,  after  proper  warning,  I  relieve  you  in 
person.  But  until  that  time  comes,  you  must  look  upon  me  as  a 
mere  spectator.  I  do  not  fear  that  you  will  make  any  mistakes; 
you  have  done  very  much  better  in  all  matters  than  I  could  have 
done  myself.  At  present  I  have  only  one  suggestion:  I  observe 
that  your  editorials  concerning  Halloway's  renomination  are  some 
thing  lukewarm. 

"It  is  very  important  that  he  be  renominated,  not  altogether  on 
account  of  assuring  his  return  to  Washington  (for  he  is  no  Madison, 
I  fear),  but  the  fellow  McCune  must  be  so  beaten  that  his  defeat 
will  be  remembered  for  twenty  years.  Halloway  is  honest  and 
clean,  at  least,  while  McCune  is  corrupt  to  the  bone.  He  has  been 
bought  and  sold,  and  I  am  glad  the  proofs  of  it  are  in  your  hands, 
as  you  tell  me  Parker  found  them,  as  directed,  in  my  trunk,  and 
gave  them  to  you. 

"The  papers  you  hold  drove  him  out  of  politics  once,  by  the  mere 
threat  of  publication;  you  should  have  printed  them  last  week,  as  I 
suggested.  Do  so  at  once;  the  time  is  short.  You  have  been  too 
gentle;  it  has  the  air  of  fearing  to  offend,  and  of  catering,  as  if  we 
were  afraid  of  antagonizing  people  against  us;  as  though  we  had  a 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  437 

personal  stake  in  the  convention.  Possibly  you  consider  our 
subscription  books  as  such;  I  do  not.  But  if  they  are,  go 
ahead  twice  as  hard.  What  if  it  does  give  the  enemy  a  weapon  in 
case  McCune  is  nominated;  if  he  is  (and  I  begin  to  see  a  danger  of 
it)  we  will  be  mth  the  enemy.  I  do  not  carry  my  partisanship  so  far 
as  to  help  elect  Mr.  McCune  to  Congress.  You  have  been  as  non 
committal  in  your  editorials  as  if  this  were  a  fit  time  for  delicacy 
and  the  cheaper  conception  of  party  policy.  My  notion  of  party 
policy — no  new  one — is  that  the  party  which  considers  the  public 
service  before  it  considers  itself  will  thrive  best  in  the  long  run. 
The  'Herald'  is  a  little  paper  (not  so  little  nowadays,  after  all,  thanks 
to  you),  but  it  is  an  honest  one,  and  it  isn't  afraid  of  Rod  McCune 
and  his  friends.  He  is  to  be  beaten,  understand,  if  we  have  to  send 
him  to  the  penitentiary  on  an  old  issue  to  do  it.  And  if  the  people 
wish  to  believe  us  cruel  or  vengeful,  let  them.  Please  let  me  see 
as  hearty  a  word  as  you  can  say  for  Halloway,  also.  You  can  write 
with  ginger;  please  show  some  in  this  matter. 
"My  condition  is  improved. 

"I  am,  very  truly  yours, 

"JOHN  HARKLESS." 

When  the  letter  was  concluded,  he  handed  it  to 
Meredith.  "Please  address  that,  put  a  'special'  on 
it,  and  send  it,  Tom.  It  should  go  at  once,  so  as  to 
reach  him  by  to-night." 

"H.  Fisbee?" 

"Yes;  H.  Fisbee." 

"I  believe  it  does  you  good  to  write,  boy,"  said 
the  other,  as  he  bent  over  him.  "You  look  more 
chirrupy  than  you  have  for  several  days." 

"It's  that  beast,  McCune;  young  Fisbee  is  rather 


438  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

queer  about  it,  and  I  felt  stirred  up  as  I  went  along." 
But  even  before  the  sentence  was  finished  the  favor 
of  age  and  utter  weariness  returned,  and  the  dark 
lids  closed  over  his  eyes.  They  opened  again, 
slowly,  and  he  took  the  other's  hand  and  looked 
up  at  him  mournfully,  but  as  it  were  his  soul  shone 
forth  in  dumb  and  eloquent  thanks. 

"I — I'm  giving  you  a  jolly  summer,  Tom,"  he 
said,  with  a  quivering  effort  to  smile.  "Don't  you 
think  I  am?  I  don't — I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have — done ' ' 

"You  old  Indian!"  said  Meredith,  tenderly. 

Three  days  later,  Tom  was  rejoiced  by  symptoms 
of  invigoration  in  his  patient.  A  telegram  came  for 
Harkless,  and  Meredith,  bringing  it  into  the  sick 
room,  was  surprised  to  find  the  occupant  sitting 
straight  up  on  his  couch  without  the  prop  of  pillows. 
He  was  reading  the  day's  copy  of  the  "Herald," 
and  his  face  was  flushed  and  his  brow  stern. 

"What's  the  matter,  boy?" 

"Mismanagement,  I  hope,"  said  the  other,  in  a 
strong  voice.  "Worse,  perhaps.  It's  this  young 
Fisbee.  I  can't  think  what's  come  over  the  fellow. 
I  thought  he  was  a  rescuing  angel,  and  he's  turning 
out  bad.  I'll  swear  it  looks  like  they'd  been — well, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  439 

I  won't  say  that  yet.  But  he  hasn't  printed  that 
McCune  business  I  told  you  of,  and  he's  had  two 
days.  There  is  less  than  a  week  before  the  con 
vention,  and—  He  broke  off,  seeing  the  yellow 
envelope  in  Meredith's  hand.  "Is  that  a  telegram 
for  me?"  His  companion  gave  it  to  him.  He  tore 
it  open  and  read  the  contents.  They  were  brief  and 
unhappy. 

"Can't  you  do  something?    Can't  you  come  down?       It  begins  to 
look  the  other  way. 


"It's  from  Halloway,"  said  John.  "I  have  got 
to  go.  What  did  that  doctor  say?" 

"He  said  two  weeks  at  the  earliest,  or  you'll  run 
into  typhoid  and  complications  from  your  hurts,  and 
even  pleasanter  things  than  that.  I've  got  you  here, 
and  here  you  stay;  so  lie  back  and  get  easy,  boy." 

"Then  give  me  that  pad  and  pencil."  He  rapidly 
dashed  off  a  note  to  H.  Fisbee: 

"September  5th. 
"H.  FISBEE, 

"Editor  'Carlow  Herald.' 

"Dear  Sir:  You  have  not  acknowledged  my  letter  of  the  2d 
September  by  a  note  (which  should  have  reached  me  the  following 
morning),  or  by  the  alteration  in  the  tenor  of  my  columns  which  I 
requested,  or  by  the  publication  of  the  McCune  papers  which  I 
directed.  In  this  I  hold  you  grossly  at  fault.  If  you  have  a  con« 


440  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

scientious  reason  for  refusing  to  carry  out  my  request  it  should 
have  been  communicated  to  me  at  once,  as  should  the  fact — if 
such  be  the  case — that  you  are  a  personal  (or  impersonal,  if  you 
like)  friend  of  Mr.  Rodney  McCune.  Whatever  the  motive,  ulterior 
or  otherwise,  which  prevents  you  from  operating  my  paper  as  I 
direct,  I  should  have  been  informed  of  it.  This  is  a  matter  vital  to 
the  interests  of  our  community,  and  you  have  hitherto  shown  your 
self  too  alert  in  accepting  my  slightest  suggestion  for  me  to  construe 
this  failure  as  negligence.  Negligence  I  might  esteem  as  at  least 
honest  and  frank;  your  course  ha*  been  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other. 

"You  will  receive  this  letter  by  seven  this  evening  by  special 
delivery.  You  will  print  the  facts  concerning  McCune  in  to-morrow 
morning's  paper. 

"I  am  well  aware  of  the  obligations  under  which  your  extreme 
efficiency  and  your  thoughtfulness  in  many  matters  have  placed 
me.  It  is  to  you  I  owe  my  unearned  profits  from  the  transaction  in 
oil,  and  it  is  to  you  I  owe  the  'Herald's'  extraordinary  present  circu 
lation,  growth  of  power  and  influence.  That  power  is  still  under  my 
direction,  and  is  an  added  responsibility  which  shall  not  be  mis 
applied. 

"You  must  forgive  me  if  I  write  too  sharply.  You  see  I  have 
failed  to  understand  your  silence;  and  if  I  wrong  you  I  heartily  ask 
your  pardon  in  advance  of  your  explanation.  Is  it  that  you  are 
sorry  for  McCune?  It  would  be  a  weak  pity  that  could  keep  you 
to  silence.  I  warned  him  long  ago  that  the  papers  you  hold  would 
be  published  if  he  ever  tried  to  return  to  political  life,  and  he  is 
deliberately  counting  on  my  physical  weakness  and  absence.  Let 
him  rely  upon  it;  I  am  not  so  weak  as  he  thinks.  Personally,  I 
cannot  say  that  I  dislike  Mr.  McCune.  I  have  found  him  a  very 
entertaining  fellow;  it  is  said  he  is  the  best  of  husbands,  and  a  true 
friend  to  some  of  his  friends,  and,  believe  me,  I  am  sorry  for  him 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  But  the  'Herald'  is  not. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  441 

"You  need  not  reply  by  letter.  To-morrow's  issue  answers  for 
you.  Until  I  have  received  a  copy,  I  withhold  my  judgment. 

"JOHN  HARKLESS." 

The  morrow's  issue — that  fateful  print  on  which 
depended  John  Harkless's  opinion  of  H.  Fisbee's 
integrity — contained  an  editorial  addressed  to  the 
delegates  of  the  convention,  warning  them  to  act  for 
the  vital  interest  of  the  community,  and  declaring 
that  the  opportunity  to  be  given  them  in  the  present 
convention  was  a  rare  one,  a  singular  piece  of  good 
fortune  indeed;  they  were  to  have  the  chance  to 
vote  for  a  man  who  had  won  the  love  and  respect 
of  every  person  in  the  district — one  who  had  suffered 
for  his  championship  of  righteousness — one  whom 
even  his  few  political  enemies  confessed  they  held 
in  personal  affection  and  esteem — one  who  had  been 
the  inspiration  of  a  new  era — one  whose  life  had 
been  helpfulness,  whose  hand  had  reached  out  to 
every  struggler  and  unfortunate — a  man  who  had 
met  and  faced  danger  for  the  sake  of  others — one 
who  lived  under  a  threat  for  years,  and  who  had 
been  almost  overborne  in  the  fulfilment  of  that 
threat,  but  who  would  live  to  see  the  sun  shine  on 
his  triumph,  the  tribute  the  convention  would  bring 
him  as  a  gift  from  a  community  that  loved  him. 


442  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

His  name  needed  not  to  be  told;  it  was  on  every  lip 
that  morning,  and  in  every  heart. 

Tom  was  eagerly  watching  his  companion  as  he 
read.  Harkless  fell  back  on  the  pillows  with  a 
drawn  face,  and  for  a  moment  he  laid  his  thin  hand 
over  his  eyes  in  a  gesture  of  intense  pain. 

"What  is  it?"  Meredith  said  quickly. 

"Give  me  the  pad,  please." 

"What  is  it,  boy?" 

The  other's  teeth  snapped  together. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried.  "What  is  it?  It's  treach 
ery,  and  the  worst  I  ever  knew.  Not  a  word  of  the 
accusation  I  demanded — lying  praises  instead !  Read 
that  editorial — there,  there!'''  He  struck  the  page 
with  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  threw  the  paper  to 
Meredith.  "Read  that  miserable  lie!  'One  who  has 
won  the  love  and  respect  of  every  person  in  the 
district!' — 'One  who  has  suffered  for  his  champion 
ship  of  righteousness!'  Righteousness!  Save  the 
mark!" 

"What  does  it  mean?" 

"Mean!  It  means  McCune — Rod  McCune,  'who 
has  lived  under  a  threat  for  years' — my  threat!  I 
swore  I  would  print  him  out  of  Indiana  if  he  ever 
raised  his  head  again,  and  he  knew  I  could.  'Almost 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  44S 

overborne  in  the  fulfilment  of  that  threat!'  Almost! 
It's  a  black  scheme,  and  I  see  it  now.  This  man 
came  to  Plattville  and  went  on  the  'Herald'  for 
nothing  in  the  world  but  this.  It's  McCune's  hand 
all  along.  He  daren't  name  him  even  now,  the 
coward!  The  trick  lies  between  McCune  and  young 
Fisbee — the  old  man  is  innocent.  Give  me  the  pad. 
Not  almost  overborne.  There  are  three  good  days 
to  work  in,  and,  by  the  gods  of  Perdition,  if  Rod 
McCune  sees  Congress  it  will  be  in  his  next  incar 
nation  !" 

He  rapidly  scribbled  a  few  lines  on  the  pad,  and 
threw  the  sheets  to  Meredith.  "Get  those  tele 
grams  to  the  Western  Union  office  in  a  rush,  please. 
Read  them  first." 

With  a  very  red  face  Tom  read  them.  One  was 
addressed  to  H.  Fisbee: 

"You  are  relieved  from  the  cares  of  editorship.  You  will  turn 
over  the  management  of  the  'Herald'  to  Warren  Smith.  You  will 
give  him  the  McCune  papers.  If  you  do  not,  or  if  you  destroy 
them,  you  cannot  hide  where  I  shall  not  find  you. 

"JOHN  HARKLESS." 

The  second  was  to  Warren  Smith: 

"Take  possession  'Herald.'  Dismiss  H.  Fisbee.  This  your  au 
thority.  Publish  McCune  papers  so  labelled  which  H.  Fisbee  will 

hand  you.     Letter  follows.     Beat  McCune. 

"JOHN  HARKLESS." 


444  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

The  author  of  the  curt  epistles  tossed  restlessly 
on  his  couch,  but  the  reader  of  them  stared,  incred 
ulous  and  dumfounded,  uncertain  of  his  command 
of  gravity.  His  jaw  fell,  and  his  open  mouth  might 
have  betokened  a  being  smit  to  .  imbecility;  and, 
haply,  he  might  be,  for  Helen  had  written  him  from 
Plattville,  pledging  his  honor  to  secrecy  with  the 
first  words,  and  it  was  by  her  command  that  he  had 
found  excuses  for  not  supplying  his  patient  with  all 
the  papers  which  happened  to  contain  references  to 
the  change  of  date  for  the  Plattville  convention. 
And  Meredith  had  known  for  some  time  where 
James  Fisbee  had  found  a  "young  relative"  to  be 
the  savior  of  the  "Herald"  for  his  benefactor's 
sake. 

"You  mean — you — intend  to — you  discharge 
young  Fisbee?"  he  stammered  at  last. 

"Yes!  Let  me  have  the  answers  the  instant  they 
come,  will  you,  Tom?"  Then  Harkless  turned  his 
face  from  the  wall  and  spoke  through  his  teeth: 
"I  mean  to  see  H.  Fisbee  before  many  days;  I  want 
to  talk  to  him!" 

But,  though  he  tossed  and  fretted  himself  into 
what  the  doctor  pronounced  a  decidedly  improved 
state,  no  answer  came  to  either  telegram  that  day  or 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  445 

night.  The  next  morning  a  messenger  boy  stumbled 
up  the  front  steps  and  handed  the  colored  man,  Jim, 
four  yellow  envelopes,  night  messages.  Three  of 
them  were  for  Harkless,  one  was  for  Meredith. 
Jim  carried  them  upstairs,  left  the  three  with  his 
master's  guest,  then  knocked  on  his  master's  door. 

"What  is  it?"  answered  a  thick  voice.  Mere 
dith  had  not  yet  risen. 

"A   telegraph,   Mist'   Tawm." 

There  was  a  terrific  yawn.  "O-o-oh!  Slide  it — 
oh — under  the — door." 

"Yessuh." 

Meredith  lay  quite  without  motion  for  several 
minutes,  sleepily  watching  the  yellow  rhomboid  in 
the  crevice.  It  was  a  hateful  looking  thing  to  come 
mixing  in  with  pleasant  dreams  and  insist  upon 
being  read.  After  a  while  he  climbed  groaningly 
out  of  bed,  and  read  the  message  with  heavy  eyes, 
still  half  asleep.  He  read  it  twice  before  it  pene 
trated  : 

"Suppress  all  newspapers  to-day.  Convention  meets  at  eleven. 
If  we  succeed  a  delegation  will  come  to  Rouen  this  afternoon.  They 

will  come. 

"HELEN." 

Tom  rubbed  his  sticky  eyelids,  and  shook  his  head 
violently  in  a  Spartan  effort  to  rouse  himself;  but 


446  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

what  more  effectively  performed  the  task  for  him 
were  certain  sounds  issuing  from  Harkless's  room, 
across  the  hall.  For  some  minutes,  Meredith  had 
been  dully  conscious  of  a  rustle  and  stir  in  the  in 
valid's  chamber,  and  he  began  to  realize  that  no 
mere  tossing  about  a  bed  would  account  for  a  noise 
that  reached  him  across  a  wide  hall  and  through  two 
closed  doors  of  thick  walnut.  Suddenly  he  heard  a 
quick,  heavy  tread,  shod,  in  Harkless's  room,  and  a 
resounding  bang,  as  some  heavy  object  struck  the 
floor.  The  doctor  was  not  to  come  till  evening;  Jim 
had  gone  down-stairs.  Who  wore  shoes  in  the  sick 
man's  room?  He  rushed  across  the  hall  in  his 
pyjamas  and  threw  open  the  unlocked  door. 

The  bed  was  disarranged  and  vacant.  Harkless, 
fully  dressed,  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
hurling  garments  at  a  big  travelling  bag. 

The  horrified  Meredith  stood  for  a  second,  bleached 
and  speechless,  then  he  rushed  upon  his  friend  and 
seized  him  with  both  hands. 

"Mad,    by    heaven!     Mad!" 

"Let  go  of  me,  Tom!" 

"Lunatic!     Lunatic!" 

"Don't  stop  me  one  instant!" 

Meredith  tried  to  force  him  toward  the  bed.     "For 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  447 

mercy's  sake,  get  back  to  bed.  You're  delirious, 
boy!" 

"Delirious  nothing.     I'm  a  well  man." 

"Go  to  bed— go  to  bed." 

Harkless  set  him  out  of  the  way  with  one  arm. 
"Bed  be  hanged!"  he  cried.  "I'm  going  to  Platt- 
ville!" 

Meredith  wrung  his  hands.     "The  doctor " 

"Doctor    be    damned!" 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  has  happened,  John?" 

His  companion  slung  a  light  overcoat,  unfolded, 
on  the  overflowing,  misshapen  bundle  of  clothes  that 
lay  in  the  bag;  then  he  jumped  on  the  lid  with  both 
feet  and  kicked  the  hasp  into  the  lock;  a  very  ele 
gantly  laundered  cuff  and  white  sleeve  dangling  out 
from  between  the  fastened  lids.  "I  haven't  one  sec 
ond  to  talk,  Tom;  I  have  seventeen  minutes  to  catch 
the  express,  and  it's  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  station; 
the  train  leaves  here  at  eight  fifty,  I  get  to  Plattville 
at  ten  forty -seven.  Telephone  for  a  cab  for  me, 
please,  or  tell  me  the  number;  I  don't  want  to  stop 
to  hunt  it  up." 

Meredith  looked  him  in  the  eyes.  In  the  pupils 
of  Harkless  flared  a  fierce  light.  His  cheeks  were 
reddened  with  an  angry,  healthy  glow,  and  his  teeth 


448  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

were  clenched  till  the  line  of  his  jaw  stood  out  like 
that  of  an  embattled  athlete  in  sculpture;  his  brow 
was  dark;  his  chest  was  thrown  out,  and  he  took 
deep,  quick  breaths;  his  shoulders  were  squared,  and 
in  spite  of  his  thinness  they  looked  massy.  Lethargy, 
or  malaria,  or  both,  whatever  were  his  ailments,  they 
were  gone.  He  was  six  feet  of  hot  wrath  and  cold 
resolution. 

Tom  said:  "You  are  going?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  am  going." 

"Then  I  will  go  with  you." 

"Thank  you,  Tom,"  said  the  other  quietly. 

Meredith  ran  into  his  own  room,  pressed  an  elec 
tric  button,  sprang  out  of  his  pyjamas  like  Aphrodite 
from  the  white  sea-foam,  and  began  to  dive  into  his 
clothes  with  a  panting  rapidity  astonishingly  foreign 
to  his  desire.  Jim  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

.."The  cart,  Jim,"  shouted  his  master.  "We  want 
it  like  lightning.  Tell  the  cook  to  give  Mr.  Harkless 
his  breakfast  in  a  hurry.  Set  a  cup  of  coffee  on  the 
table  by  the  front  door  for  me.  Run  like  the  deuce! 
We've  got  to  catch  a  tram. — That  will  be  quicker 
than  any  cab,"  he  explained  to  Harkless.  "WV11 
break  the  ordinance  against  fast  driving,  getting 
down  there." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  449 

Ten  minutes  later  the  cart  swept  away  from  the 
house  at  a  gait  which  pained  the  respectable  neigh 
borhood.  The  big  horse  plunged  through  the  air, 
his  ears  laid  flat  toward  his  tail;  the  cart  careened 
sickeningly;  the  face  of  the  servant  clutching  at  the 
rail  in  the  rear  was  smeared  with  pallor  as  they 
pirouetted  around  curves  on  one  wheel— to  him  it 
seemed  they  skirted  the  corners  and  Death  simul 
taneously — and  the  speed  of  their  going  made  a 
strong  wind  in  their  faces. 

Harkless  leaned  forward. 

"Can  you  make  it  a  little  faster,  Tom?"  he  said. 

They  dashed  up  to  the  station  amid  the  cries  of 
people  flying  to  the  walls  for  safety;  the  two  gentle 
men  leaped  from  the  cart,  bore  down  upon  the  ticket- 
office,  stormed  at  the  agent,  and  ran  madly  at  the 
gates,  flourishing  their  passports.  The  official  oi> 
duty  eyed  them  wearily,  and  barred  the  way. 

"Been  gone  two  minutes,"  he  remarked,  with  a 
peaceable  yawn. 

Harkless  stamped  his  foot  on  the  cement  flags; 
then  he  stood  stock  still,  gazing  at  the  empty  tracks; 
but  Meredith  turned  to  him,  smiling. 

"Won't  it  keep?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  it  will  keep,"  John  answered.     "Part  of  it 


450  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

may  have  to  keep  till  election  day,  but  some  of  it  I 
will  settle  before  night.  And  that,'*  he  cried,  be 
tween  his  teeth,  "and  that  is  the  part  of  it  in  regard 
to  young  Mr.  Fisbee!" 

"Oh,  it's  about  H.  Fisbee,  is  it?" 

"Yes,   it's   H.   Fisbee." 

**Well,  we  might  as  well  go  up  and  see  what  the 
doctor  thinks  of  you;  there's  no  train." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  a  doctor  again,  ever — as  long 
as  I  live.  I'm  as  well  as  anybody." 

Tom  burst  out  laughing,  and  clapped  his  com 
panion  lightly  on  the  shoulder,  his  eyes  dancing  with 
pleasure. 

"Upon  my  soul,"  he  cried,  "I  believe  you  are! 
It's  against  all  my  tradition,  and  I  see  I  am  the  gull 
of  poetry;  for  I've  always  believed  it  to  be  beyond 
question  that  this  sort  of  miracle  was  wrought,  not 
by  rage,  but  by  the  tenderer  senti—  Tom  checked 
himself.  "Well,  let's  take  a  drive." 

"Meredith,"  said  the  other,  turning  to  him 
gravely,  "you  may  think  me  a  fool,  if  you  will,  and 
it's  likely  I  am;  but  I  don't  leave  this  station  except 
by  train.  I've  only  two  days  to  work  in,  and  every 
minute  lessens  our  chances  to  beat  McCune,  and  I 
have  to  begin  by  wasting  time  on  a  tussle  with  a 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  451 

traitor.  There's  another  train  at  eleven  fifty-five;  I 
don't  take  any  chances  on  missing  that  one." 

"Well,  well,"  laughed  his  friend,  pushing  him 
good-humoredly  toward  a  door  by  a  red  and  white 
striped  pillar,  "we'll  wait  here,  if  you  like;  but  at 
least  go  in  there  and  get  a  shave;  it's  a  clean  shop. 
You  want  to  look  your  best  if  you  are  going  down  to 
fight  H.  Fisbee." 

"Take  these,  then,  and  you  will  understand,"  said 
Harkless;  and  he  thrust  his  three  telegrams  of  the 
morning  into  Tom's  hand  and  disappeared  into  the 
barber-shop.  When  he  was  gone,  Meredith  went 
to  the  telegraph  office  in  the  station,  and  sent  a  line 
over  the  wire  to  Helen: 

"Keep  your  delegation  at  home.     He's  coming  on  the  11.55." 

Then  he  read  the  three  telegrams  Harkless  had 
given  him.  They  were  all  from  Plattville: 

"Sorry  cannot  oblige.  Present  incumbent  tenacious.  Uncon 
ditionally  refuses  surrender.  Delicate  matter.  No  hope  for  K.  H« 
But  don't  worry.  Everything  all  right. 

"WARREN  SMITH." 

"Harkless,  if  you  have  the  strength  to  walk,  come  down  beforf 
»he  convention.  Get  here  by  10.47.  Looks  bad.  Come  if  it  killr 

you. 

"K.  H." 

"You  entrusted  me  with  sole  responsibility  for  all  matters  per 


452  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

taining  to  'Herald.'  Declared  yourself  mere  spectator.  Does  this 
permit  your  interfering  with  my  policy  for  the  paper?  Decline  to 
consider  any  proposition  to  relieve  me  of  my  duties  without  proper 
warning  and  allowance  of  time. 

"H.  FISBEE." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   GREAT   HARKLESS   COMES   HOME 

THE  accommodation  train  wandered  languidly 
through  the  early  afternoon  sunshine,  stop 
ping  at  every  village  and  almost  every 
country  post-office  on  the  line;  the  engine  toot- 
tooting  at  the  road  crossings;  and,  now  and  again, 
at  such  junctures,  a  farmer,  struggling  with  a  team 
of  prancing  horses,  would  be  seen,  or,  it  might  be, 
a  group  of  school  children,  homeward  bound  from 
seats  of  learning.  At  each  station,  when  the  train 
came  to  a  stand-still,  some  passenger,  hanging  head 
and  elbows  out  of  his  window,  like  a  quilt  draped 
over  a  chair,  would  address  a  citizen  on  the  plat 
form: 

"Hey,  Sam,  how's  Miz  Bushkirk?" 

"She's  wal." 

"Where's  Milt,  this  afternoon?" 

"Warshing  the  buggy."     Then  at  the  cry,  "All 

'board" — "See  you  Sunday  over  at  Amo." 

453 


454  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"You  make  Milt  come.  I'll  be  there,  shore, 
So  long." 

There  was  an  impatient  passenger  in  the  smoker, 
who  found  the  stoppages  at  these  wayside  hamlets 
interminable,  both  in  frequency  and  in  the  delay 
at  each  of  them;  and  while  the  dawdling  train  re 
mained  inert,  and  the  moments  passed  inactive, 
his  eyes  dilated  and  his  hand  clenched  till  the 
nails  bit  his  palm;  then,  when  the  trucks  groaned 
and  the  wheels  crooned  against  the  rails  once  more, 
he  sank  back  in  his  seat  with  sighs  of  relief.  Some 
times  he  would  get  up  and  pace  the  aisle  until  his 
companion  reminded  him  that  this  was  not  certain 
to  hasten  the  hour  of  their  arrival  at  their  des 
tination. 

"I  know  that,"  answered  the  other,  "but  I've 
got  to  beat  McCune." 

"By  the  way,"  observed  Meredith,  "you  left 
your  stick  behind." 

"You  don't  think  I  need  a  club  to  face — 

Tom  choked.  "Oh,  no.  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
your  giving  H.  Fisbee  a  thrashing.  I  meant  to 
lean  on." 

"I  don't  want  it.  I've  got  to  walk  lame  all  my 
life,  but  I'm  not  going  to  hobble  on  a  stick."  Tom 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  455 

looked  at  him  sadly;  for  it  was  true,  and  the  Cross- 
Roaders  might  hug  themselves  in  their  cells  over 
the  thought.  For  the  rest  of  his  life  John  Harkless 
was  to  walk  with  just  the  limp  they  themselves 
would  have  had,  if,  as  in  former  days,  their  sentence 
had  been  to  the  ball  and  chain. 

The  window  was  open  beside  the  two  young  men, 
and  the  breeze  swept  in,  fresh  from  the  wide  fields, 
There  was  a  tang  in  the  air;  it  soothed  like  a  balm, 
but  there  was  a  spur  to  energy  and  heartiness  in  its 
crispness,  the  wholesome  touch  of  fall.  John  looked 
out  over  the  boundless  aisles  of  corn  that  stood 
higher  than  a  tall  man  could  reach;  long  waves 
rippled  across  them.  Here,  where  the  cry  of  the 
brave  had  rung  in  forest  glades,  where  the  painted 
tribes  had  hastened,  were  marshalled  the  tasselled 
armies  of  peace.  And  beyond  these,  where  the 
train  ran  between  shadowy  groves,  delicate  land 
scape  vistas,  framed  in  branches,  opened,  closed, 
and  succeeded  each  other,  and  then  the  travellers 
were  carried  out  into  the  level  open  again,  and  the 
intensely  blue  September  skies  ran  down  to  the 
low  horizon,  meeting  the  tossing  plumes  of  corn. 

It  takes  a  long  time  for  the  full  beauty  of  the 
flat  lands  to  reach  a  man's  soul;  once  there,  nor 


456  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

hills,  nor  sea,  nor  growing  fan  leaves  of  palm  shall 
suffice  him.  It  is  like  the  beauty  in  the  word 
"Indiana."  It  may  be  that  there  are  people  who 
do  not  consider  "Indiana"  a  beautiful  word;  but 
once  it  rings  true  in  your  ears  it  has  a  richer  sound 
than  "Vallombrosa." 

There  was  a  newness  in  the  atmosphere  that  day, 
a  bright  invigoration,  that  set  the  blood  tingling. 
The  hot  months  were  done  with,  languor  was 
routed.  Autumn  spoke  to  industry,  told  of  the 
sowing  of  another  harvest,  of  the  tawny  shock,  of 
the  purple  grape,  of  the  red  apple,  and  called  upon 
muscle  and  laughter;  breathed  gaiety  into  men's 
hearts.  The  little  stations  hummed  with  bustle  and 
noise;  big  farm  wagons  rattled  away  and  raced  with 
cut-under  or  omnibus;  people  walked  with  quick 
steps;  the  baggage-masters  called  cheerily  to  the 
trainmen,  and  the  brakemen  laughed  good-bys  to 
rollicking  girls. 

As  they  left  Gainesville  three  children,  clad  in 
calico,  barefoot  and  bareheaded,  came  romping  out 
of  a  log  cabin  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and 
waved  their  hands  to  the  passengers.  They  climbed 
on  the  sagging  gate  in  front  of  their  humble  do 
main,  and  laughed  for  joy  to  see  the  monstrous 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  457 

caravan  come  clattering  out  of  the  unknown,  bear 
ing  the  faces  by.  The  smallest  child,  a  little  cherubic 
tow-head,  whose  cheeks  were  smeared  with  clean 
earth  and  the  tracks  of  forgotten  tears,  stood  up 
right  on  a  fence-post,  and  blew  the  most  impudent 
of  kisses  to  the  strangers  on  a  journey. 

Beyond  this  they  came  into  a  great  plain,  acres 
and  acres  of  green  rag-weed  where  the  wheat  had 
grown,  all  so  flat  one  thought  of  an  enormous 
billiard  table,  and  now,  where  the  railroad  crossed 
the  country  roads,  they  saw  the  staunch  brown 
thistle,  sometimes  the  sumach,  and  always  the 
graceful  iron-weed,  slender,  tall,  proud,  bowing 
a  purple-turbaned  head,  or  shaking  in  an  agony  of 
fright  when  it  stood  too  close  to  the  train.  The 
fields,  like  great,  flat  emeralds  set  in  new  metal, 
were  bordered  with  golden-rod,  and  at  sight  of  this 
the  heart  leaped;  for  the  golden-rod  is  a  symbol 
of  stored  granaries,  of  ripe  sheaves,  of  the  kindness 
of  the  season  generously  given  and  abundantly 
received;  more,  it  is  the  token  of  a  land  of  promise 
and  of  bounteous  fulfilment;  and  the  plant  stains  its 
blossom  with  yellow  so  that  when  it  falls  it  pays 
tribute  to  the  ground  which  has  nourished  it. 

From  the  plain  they  passed  again  into  a  thick 


458  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

wood,  where  ruddy  arrows  of  the  sun  glinted  among 
the  boughs;  and,  here  and  there,  one  saw  a  courtly 
maple  or  royal  oak  wearing  a  gala  mantle  of  crimson 
and  pale  brown,  gallants  of  the  forest  preparing 
early  for  the  October  masquerade,  when  they  should 
hold  wanton  carnival,  before  they  stripped  them 
of  their  finery  for  pious  gray. 

And  when  the  coughing  engine  drew  them  to  the 
borders  of  this  wood,  they  rolled  out  into  another 
rich  plain  of  green  and  rust-colored  corn;  and  far 
to  the  south  John  Harkless  marked  a  winding  pro 
cession  of  sycamores,  which,  he  knew,  followed  the 
course  of  a  slender  stream;  and  the  waters  of  the 
stream  flowed  by  a  bank  where  wild  thyme  might 
have  grown,  and  where,  beyond  an  orchard  and  a 
rose-garden,  a  rustic  bench  was  placed  in  the  shade 
of  the  trees;  and  the  name  of  the  stream  was  Hib- 
bard's  Creek.  Here  the  land  lay  flatter  than  else 
where;  the  sky  came  closer,  with  a  gentler  benedic 
tion;  the  breeze  blew  in,  laden  with  keener  spices; 
there  was  the  flavor  of  apples  and  the  smell  of  the 
walnut  and  a  hint  of  coming  frost ;  the  immeasurable 
earth  lay  more  patiently  to  await  the  husbandman; 
and  the  whole  world  seemed  to  extend  flat  in  line 
with  the  eye — for  this  was  Carlow  County. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  459 

All  at  once  the  anger  ran  out  of  John  Harkless; 
he  was  a  hard  man  for  anger  to  tarry  with.  And  in 
place  of  it  a  strong  sense  of  home-coming  began  to 
take  possession  of  him.  He  was  going  home. 
"Back  to  Plattville,  where  I  belong,"  he  had  said; 
and  he  said  it  again  without  bitterness,  for  it  was  the 
truth.  "Every  man  cometh  to  his  own  place  in  the 
end." 

Yes,  as  one  leaves  a  gay  acquaintance  of  the  play 
house  lobby  for  some  hard-handed,  tried  old  friend, 
so  he  would  wave  the  outer  world  God-speed  and 
come  back  to  the  old  ways  of  Carlow.  What  though 
the  years  were  dusty,  he  had  his  friends  and  his 
memories  and  his  old  black  brier  pipe.  He  had  a 
girl's  picture  that  he  should  carry  in  his  heart  till 
his  last  day;  and  if  his  life  was  sadder,  it  was 
infinitely  richer  for  it.  His  winter  fireside  should  be 
not  so  lonely  for  her  sake;  and  losing  her,  he  lost 
not  everything,  for  he  had  the  rare  blessing  of 
having  known  her.  And  what  man  could  wish  to 
be  healed  of  such  a  hurt?  Far  better  to  have  had 
it  than  to  trot  a  smug  pace  unscathed. 

He  had  been  a  dullard;  he  had  lain  prostrate  in 
the  wretchedness  of  his  loss.  "A  girl  you  could  put 
in  your  hat — and  there  you  have  a  strong  mar 


460  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

prone."  He  had  been  a  sluggard,  weary  of  himself, 
unfit  to  fight,  a  failure  in  life  and  a  failure  in  love. 
That  was  ended;  he  was  tired  of  failing,  and  it  was 
time  to  succeed  for  a  while.  To  accept  the  worst 
that  Fate  can  deal,  and  to  wring  courage  from  it 
instead  of  despair,  that  is  success;  and  it  was  the 
success  that  he  would  have.  He  would  take  Fate 
by  the  neck.  But  had  it  done  him  unkindness? 
He  looked  out  over  the  beautiful,  "monotonous" 
landscape,  and  he  answered  heartily,  "No!"  There 
was  ignorance  in  man,  but  no  unkindness;  were 
man  utterly  wise  he  were  utterly  kind.  The  Cross- 
Roaders  had  not  known  better;  that  was  all. 

The  unfolding  aisles  of  corn  swam  pleasantly 
before  John's  eyes.  The  earth  hearkened  to  man's 
wants  and  answered;  the  clement  sun  and  summer 
rains  hastened  the  fruition.  Yonder  stood  the 
brown  haystack,  garnered  to  feed  the  industrious 
horse  who  had  earned  his  meed;  there  was  the  straw- 
thatched  shelter  for  the  cattle.  How  the  orchard 
boughs  bent  with  their  burdens!  The  big  red  barns 
stood  stored  with  the  harvested  wheat;  and,  beyond 
the  pasture-lands,  tall  trees  rose  against  the  benign 
sky  to  feed  the  glance  of  a  dreamer;  the  fertile  soil 
lay  lavender  and  glossy  in  the  furrow.  The  farm- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  461 

houses  were  warmly  built  and  hale  and  strong;  no 
winter  blast  should  rage  so  bitterly  as  to  shake 
them,  or  scatter  the  hospitable  embers  on  the  hearth. 
For  this  was  Carlow  County,  and  he  was  coming 
home. 

They  crossed  a  by-road.  An  old  man  with  a 
streaky  gray  chin-beard  was  sitting  on  a  sack  of 
oats  in  a  seatless  wagon,  waiting  for  the  train  to 
pass.  Harkless  seized  his  companion  excitedly  by 
the  elbow. 

"Tommy!"  he  cried.  "It's  Kim  Fentriss— look ! 
Did  you  see  that  old  fellow?" 

"I  saw  a  particularly  uninterested  and  uninter 
esting  gentleman  sitting  on  a  bag,"  replied  his 
friend. 

"Why,  tnat's  old  Kimball  Fentriss.  He's  going 
to  town;  he  lives  on  the  edge  of  the  county." 

"Can  this  be  true?"  said  Meredith  gravely. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Harkless  thoughtfully,  a  few 
moments  later,  "I  wonder  why  he  had  them  changed 
around." 

"Who  changed  around?" 

"The  team.  He  always  used  to  drive  the  bay  on 
the  near  side,  and  the  sorrel  on  the  off." 


462  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"And  at  present,"  rejoined  Meredith,  "I  am  to 
understand  that  he  is  driving  the  sorrel  on  the  near 
side,  and  bay  on  the  off?" 

"That's  it,"  returned  the  other.  "He  must  have 
worked  them  like  that  for  some  time,  because  they 
didn't  look  uneasy.  They're  all  right  about  the 
train,  those  two.  I've  seen  them  stand  with  their 
heads  almost  against  a  fast  freight.  See  there!" 
He  pointed  to  a  white  frame  farmhouse  with  green 
blinds.  "That's  Win  Hibbard's.  We're  just  out 
side  of  Beaver." 

"Beaver?     Elucidate  Beaver,  boy!" 

"Beaver?  Meredith,  your  information  ends  at 
home.  What  do  you  know  of  your  own  State  if 
you  are  ignorant  of  Beaver.  Beaver  is  that  city  of 
Carlow  County  next  in  importance  and  population 
to  Plattville." 

Tom  put  his  head  out  of  the  window.  "I  fancy 
you  are  right,"  he  said.  "I  already  see  five  people 
there." 

Meredith  had  observed  the  change  in  his  com 
panion's  mood.  He  had  watched  him  closely  all 
day,  looking  for  a  return  of  his  malady;  but  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  in  truth  a  miracle  had  been 
wrought,  for  the  lethargy  was  gone,  and  vigor  seemed 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  463 

to  increase  in  Harkless  with  every  turn  of  the  wheels 
that  brought  them  nearer  Plattville;  and  the  nearer 
they  drew  to  Plattville  the  higher  the  spirits  of  both 
the  young  men  rose.  Meredith  knew  what  was  hap 
pening  there,  and  he  began  to  be  a  little  excited. 
As  he  had  said,  there  were  five  people  visible  at 
Beaver;  and  he  wondered  where  they  lived,  as  the 
only  building  in  sight  was  the  station,  and  to  satisfy 
his  curiosity  he  walked  out  to  the  vestibule.  The 
little  station  stood  in  deep  woods,  and  brown  leaves 
whirled  along  the  platform.  One  of  the  five  people 
was  an  old  lady,  and  she  entered  a  rear  car.  The 
other  four  were  men.  One  of  them  handed  the  con 
ductor  a  telegram. 

Meredith  heard  the  official  say,  "All  right.  Decor 
ate  ahead.  I'll  hold  it  five  minutes." 

The  man  sprang  up  the  steps  of  the  smoker  and 
looked  in.  He  turned  to  Meredith:  "Do  you  know 
if  that  gentleman  in  the  gray  coat  is  Mr.  Harkless? 
He's  got  his  back  this  way,  and  I  don't  want  to 
go  inside.  The — the  air  in  a  smoker  always  gives 
me  a  spell." 

"Yes,  that's  Mr.  Harkless." 

The  man  jumped  to  the  platform.  "All  right, 
boys,"  he  said.  "Rip  her  out." 


464  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

The  doors  of  the  freight-room  were  thrown  open, 
and  a  big  bundle  of  colored  stuffs  was  dragged  out 
and  hastily  unfolded.  One  of  the  men  ran  to  the 
further  end  of  the  car  with  a  strip  of  red,  white  and 
blue  bunting,  and  tacked  it  securely,  while  another 
fastened  the  other  extremity  to  the  railing  of  the 
steps  by  Meredith.  The  two  companions  of  this 
pair  performed  the  same  operation  with  another 
strip  on  the  other  side  of  the  car.  They  ran  similar 
strips  of  bunting  along  the  roof  from  end  to  end, 
so  that,  except  for  the  windows,  the  car  was  com 
pletely  covered  by  the  national  colors.  Then  they 
draped  the  vestibules  with  flags.  It  was  all  done 
in  a  trice. 

Meredith's  heart  was  beating  fast.  "What's  it 
all  about?"  he  asked. 

"Picnic  down  the  line,"  answered  the  man  in 
charge,  removing  a  tack  from  his  mouth.  He  mo 
tioned  to  the  conductor,  "Go  ahead." 

The  wheels  began  to  move;  the  decorators  re 
mained  on  the  platform,  letting  the  train  pass  them; 
but  Meredith,  craning  his  neck  from  the  steps, 
saw  that  they  jumped  on  the  last  car. 

"What's  the  celebration?"  asked  Harkless,  when 
Meredith  returned. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  465 

"Picnic  down  the  line,"  said  Meredith. 

"Nipping  weather  for  a  picnic;  a  little  cool,  don't 
you  think?  One  of  those  fellows  looked  like  a 
friend  of  mine,  Homer  Tibbs,  or  as  Homer  might 
look  if  he  were  in  disgrace.  He  had  his  hat  hung 
on  his  eyes,  and  he  slouched  like  a  thief  in  melo 
drama,  as  he  tacked  up  the  bunting  on  this  side 
of  the  car."  He  continued  to  point  out  various 
familiar  places,  finally  breaking  out  enthusi 
astically,  as  they  drew  nearer  the  town,  "Hello! 
Look  there — beyond  the  grove  yonder!  See  that 
house?" 

"Yes,  John." 

"That's  the  Bowlders'.  You've  got  to  know  the 
Bowlders." 

"I'd  like  to." 

"The  kindest  people  in  the  world.  The  Briscoe 
house  we  can't  see,  because  it's  so  shut  in  by  trees; 
and,  besides,  it's  a  mile  or  so  ahead  of  us.  We'll 
go  out  there  for  supper  to-night.  Don't  you  like 
Briscoe?  He's  the  best  they  make.  We'll  go  up 
town  with  Judd  Bennett  in  the  omnibus,  and  you'll 
know  how  a  rapid-fire  machine  gun  sounds.  I 
want  to  go  straight  to  the  'Herald'  office,"  he 
finished,  with  a  suddenly  darkening  brow. 


466  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"After  all,  there  may  be  some  explanation/1 
Meredith  suggested,  with  a  little  hesitancy.  "H. 
Fisbee  might  turn  out  more  honest  than  you 
think." 

Harkless  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed; 
it  was  the  first  time  Meredith  had  heard 
him  laugh  since  the  night  of  the  dance  in  the 
country.  "Honest!  A  man  in  the  pay  of  Rod 
ney  McCune!  Well,  we  can  let  it  wait  till  we 
get  there.  Listen!  There's  the  whistle  that  means 
we're  getting  near  home.  Bv  heaven,  there's  an 
oil-well!" 

"So  it  is." 

"And  another — three — five — seven — seven  in  sight 
at  once!  They  tried  it  three  miles  south  and  failed; 
but  you  can't  fool  Eph  Watts,  bless  him!  I  want 
you  to  know  Watts." 

They  were  running  by  the  outlying  houses  of 
the  town,  amidst  a  thousand  descriptive  exclama 
tions  from  Harkless,  who  wished  Meredith  to  meet 
every  one  in  Carlow.  But  he  came  to  a  pause  in 
the  middle  of  a  word. 

"Do  you  hear  music?"  he  asked  abruptly.  "Or 
is  it  only  the  rhythm  of  the  ties?" 

"It  seems  to  me  there's  music  in  the  air,"  an- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  467 

swered  his  companion.  "I've  been  fancying  I 
heard  it  for  a  minute  or  so.  There!  No — yes. 
It's  a  band,  isn't  it?" 

"No;  what  would  a  band— 

The  train  slowed  up,  and  stopped  at  a  water- 
tank,  two  hundred  yards  east  of  the  station,  and 
their  uncertainty  was  at  an  end. 

From  somewhere  down  the  track  came  the  de 
tonating  boom  of  a  cannon.  There  was  a  clash  of 
brass,  and  the  travellers  became  aware  of  a  band 
playing  "Marching  through  Georgia."  Meredith 
laid  his  hand  on  his  companion's  shoulder.  "John," 

he  said,  "John The  cannon  fired  again,  and 

there  came  a  cheer  from  three  thousand  throats, 
the  shouters  all  unseen. 

The  engine  coughed  and  panted,  the  train  rolled 
on,  and  in  another  minute  it  had  stopped  along 
side  the  station  in  the  midst  of  a  riotous  jam  of 
happy  people,  who  were  waving  flags  and  banners 
and  handkerchiefs,  and  tossing  their  hats  high  in 
the  air,  and  shouting  themselves  hoarse.  The  band 
played  in  dumb  show;  it  could  not  hear  itself  play. 
The  people  came  at  the  smoker  like  a  long  wave, 
and  Warren  Smith,  Briscoe,  Keating,  and  Mr. 
Bence  of  Gaines  were  swept  ahead  of  it.  Before 


468  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

the  train  stopped  they  had  rushed  eagerly  up  the 
steps  and  entered  the  car. 

Harkless  was  on  his  feet  and  started  to  meet 
them.  He  stopped. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  said,  and  began  to 
grow  pale.  "Is  Halloway — did  McCune — have 
you " 

Warren  Smith  seized  one  of  his  hands  and  Briscoe 
the  other.  "What  does  it  mean?"  cried  Warren; 
"it  means  that  you  were  nominated  for  Congress 
at  five  minutes  after  one-o'clock  this  afternoon." 

"On  the  second  ballot,"  shouted  the  judge,  "just 
as  young  Fisbee  planned  it,  weeks  ago." 

It  was  one  of  the  great  crowds  of  Carlow's  his 
tory.  They  had  known  since  morning  that  he  was 
coming  home,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  Recep 
tion  Committee  had  some  busy  hours;  but  long 
before  the  train  arrived,  everything  was  ready. 
Homer  Tibbs  had  done  his  work  well  at  Beaver, 
and  the  gray-haired  veterans  of  a  battery  Carlow 
had  sent  out  in  '61  had  placed  their  worn  old  gun 
in  position  to  fire  salutes.  At  one-o'clock,  imme 
diately  after  the  nomination  had  been  made  unan 
imous,  the  Harkless  Clubs  of  Carlow,  Amo,  and 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  469 

Gaines,  secretly  organized  during  the  quiet  agitation 
preceding  the  convention,  formed  on  parade  in  the 
court-house  yard,  and,  with  the  Plattville  Band  at 
their  head,  paraded  the  streets  to  the  station,  to 
make  sure  of  being  on  hand  when  the  train  arrived 
— it  was  due  in  a  couple  of  hours.  There  they  were 
joined  by  an  increasing  number  of  glad  enthusiasts, 
all  noisy,  exhilarated,  red-faced  with  shouting,  and 
patriotically  happy.  As  Mr.  Bence,  himself  the 
spoiled  child  of  another  county,  generously  said, 
in  a  speech,  which  (with  no  outrageous  pressure) 
he  was  induced  to  make  during  the  long  wait:  "The 
favorite  son  of  Carlow  is  returning  to  his  Lares 
and  Penates  like  another  Cincinnatus  accepting  the 
call  of  the  people;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  six 
teen  years,  Carlow  shall  have  a  representative  to 
bear  the  banner  of  this  district  and  the  flaming 
torch  of  Progress  sweeping  on  to  Washington  and 
triumph  like  a  speedy  galleon  of  old.  And  his 
friends  are  here  to  take  his  hand  and  do  him  homage, 
and  the  number  of  his  friends  is  as  the  number 
given  in  the  last  census  of  the  population  of  the 
counties  of  this  district!" 

And,  indeed,  in  this  estimate  the  speaker  seemed 
guilty   of   no   great   exaggeration.     A   never   inter- 


470  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

mittent  procession  of  pedestrians  and  vehicles  made 
its  way  to  the  station;  and  every  wagon,  buck- 
board,  buggy,  and  cut-under  had  its  flags  or  bunt 
ing,  or  streamer  of  ribbons  tied  to  the  whip.  The 
excitement  increased  as  the  time  grew  shorter; 
those  on  foot  struggled  for  better  positions,  and 
the  people  in  wagons  and  carriages  stood  upon 
seats,  while  the  pedestrians  besieged  them,  climbing 
on  the  wheels,  or  balancing  recklessly,  with  feet  on 
the  hubs  of  opposite  wagons.  Everybody  was 
bound  to .  see  him.  When  the  whistle  announced 
the  coming  of  the  train,  the  band  began  to  play, 
the  cannon  fired,  horns  blew,  and  the  cheering 
echoed  and  reechoed  till  heaven's  vault  resounded 
with  the  noise  the  people  of  Carlow  were  making. 

There  was  one  heart  which  almost  stepped  beat 
ing.  Helen  was  standing  on  the  front  seat  of  the 
Briscoe  buckboard,  with  Minnie  beside  her,  and,  at 
the  commotion,  the  horses  pranced  and  backed  so 
that  Lige  Willetts  ran  to  hold  them;  but  she  did 
not  notice  the  frightened  roans,  nor  did  she  know 
that  Minnie  clutched  her  round  the  waist  to  keep 
her  from  falling.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on 
the  smoke  of  the  far-away  engine,  and  her  hand, 
lifted  to  her  face  in  an  uncertain,  tremulous  fashion, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  471 

as  it  was  one  day  in  a  circus  tent,  pressed  against 
the  deepest  blush  that  ever  mantled  a  girl's  cheek. 
When  the  train  reached  the  platform,  she  saw 
Briscoe  and  the  others  rush  into  the  car,  and  there 
ensued  what  was  to  her  an  almost  intolerable  pause 
of  expectation,  while  the  crowd  besieged  the  win 
dows  of  the  smoker,  leaning  up  and  climbing  on 
each  other's  shoulders  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of 
him.  Briscoe  and  a  red-faced  young  man,  a  stranger 
to  Plattville,  came  down  the  steps,  laughing  like 
boys,  and  then  Keating  and  Bence,  and  then  Warren 
Smith.  As  the  lawyer  reached  the  platform,  he 
turned  toward  the  door  of  the  car  and  waved  his 
hand  as  in  welcome. 

"Here  he  is,  boys!"  he  shouted,  "Welcome 
Home!"  At  that  it  was  as  if  all  the  noise  that  had 
gone  befor0  had  been  mere  leakage  of  pent-up 
enthusiasm.  A  thousand  horns  blared  deafeningly, 
the  whistles  of  the  engine  and  of  Hibbard's  mill 
were  added  to  the  din,  the  court-house  bell  was 
pealing  out  a  welcome,  and  the  church  bells  were 
ringing,  the  cannon  thundered,  and  then  cheer  on 
cheer  shook  the  ah*,  as  John  Harkless  came  out 
under  the  flags,  and  passed  down  the  steps  of  the  car. 

When   Helen   saw   him,    over   the   heads   of   the 


472  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

people  and  through  a  flying  tumult  of  flags  and 
hats  and  handkerchiefs,  she  gave  one  frightened 
glance  about  her,  and  jumped  down  from  her 
high  perch,  and  sank  into  the  back  seat  of  the  buck- 
board  with  her  burning  face  turned  from  the  sta 
tion  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  She  wanted 
to  run  away,  as  she  had  run  from  him  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  seen  him.  Then,  as  now,  he 
came  in  triumph,  hailed  by  the  plaudits  of  his 
fellows;  and  now,  as  on  that  long-departed  day  of 
her  young  girlhood,  he  was  borne  high  over  the 
heads  of  the  people,  for  Minnie  cried  to  her  to 
look;  they  were  carrying  him  on  their  shoulders 
to  his  carriage.  She  had  had  only  that  brief  glimpse 
of  him,  before  he  was  lost  in  the  crowd  that  was 
so  glad  to  get  him  back  again  and  so  proud  of  him; 
but  she  had  seen  that  he  looked  very  white  and 
solemn. 

Briscoe  and  Tom  Meredith  made  their  way 
through  the  crowd,  and  climbed  into  the  buckboard. 
"All  right,  Lige,"  called  the  judge  to  Willetts,  who 
was  at  the  horses'  heads.  "You  go  get  into  line 
with  the  boys;  they  want  you.  We'll  go  down  on 
Main  Street  to  see  the  parade,"  he  explained  to 
the  ladies,  gathering  the  reins  in  his  hand. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  473 

He  clucked  to  the  roans,  and  by  dint  of  backing 
and  twisting  and  turning  and  a  hundred  intricate 
manoeuvres,  accompanied  by  entreaties  and  remon 
strances  and  objurgations,  addressed  to  the  occu 
pants  of  surrounding  vehicles,  he  managed  to 
extricate  the  buckboard  from  the  press;  and  once 
free,  the  team  went  down  the  road  toward  Main 
Street  at  a  lively  gait.  The  judge's  call  to  the  colts 
rang  out  cheerily;  his  handsome  face  was  one  broad 
smile.  "This  is  a  big  day  for  Carlow,"  he  said; 
"I  don't  remember  a  better  day's  work  in  twenty 
years." 

"Did  you  tell  him  about  Mr.  Halloway?"  asked 
Helen,  leaning  forward  anxiously. 

"Warren  told  him  before  we  left  the  car,"  an 
swered  Briscoe.  "He'd  have  declined  on  the  spot, 
I  expect,  if  we  hadn't  made  him  sure  it  was  all 
right  with  Kedge." 

"If  I  understood  what  Mr.  Smith  was  saying, 
Halloway  must  have  behaved  very  well,"  said 
Meredith. 

The  judge  laughed.  "He  saw  it  was  the  only 
way  to  beat  McCune,  and  he'd  have  given  his  life 
and  Harkless's,  too,  rather  than  let  McCune  have 
it" 


474  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  with  him,  Tom?"  asked 
Helen. 

"With  Halloway?     I  don't  know  him." 

"One  forgives  a  generous  hilarity  anything,  even 
such  quips  as  that,"  she  retorted.  "Why  did  you 
not  stay  with  Mr.  Harkless?" 

"That's  very  hospitable  of  you,"  laughed  the 
young  man.  "You  forget  that  I  have  the  felicity 
to  sit  at  your  side.  Judge  Briscoe  has  been  kind 
enough  to  ask  me  to  review  the  procession  from  his 
buckboard  and  to  sup  at  his  house  with  other  dis 
tinguished  visitors,  and  I  have  accepted." 

"But  didn't  he  wish  you  to  remain  with 
him?" 

"But  this  second  I  had  the  honor  to  inform  you 
that  I  am  here  distinctly  by  his  invitation." 

"His?" 

"Precisely,  his.  Judge  Briscoe,  Miss  Sherwood 
will  not  believe  that  you  desire  my  presence.  If 
I  intrude,  pray  let  me —  He  made  as  if  to  spring 
from  the  buckboard,  and  the  girl  seized  his  arm 
impatiently. 

"You  are  a  pitiful  nonsense-monger!"  she  cried; 
and  for  some  reason  this  speech  made  him  turn 
his  glasses  upon  her  gravely.  Her  lashes  fell  before 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  475 

his  gaze,  and  at  that  he  took  her  hand  and  kissed 
it  quickly. 

"No,  no,"  she  faltered.  "You  must  not  think  it. 
It  isn't — you  see,  I — there  is  nothing!" 

"You  shall  not  dull  the  edge  of  my  hilarity,"  he 
answered,  "especially  since  so  much  may  be  for 
given  it." 

"Why  did  you  leave  Mr.  Harkless?"  she  asked, 
without  raising  her  eyes. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  replied,  "because,  for  some 
inexplicable  reason,  my  lady  cousin  has  not  nomi 
nated  me  for  Congress,  but  instead  has  chosen  to 
bestow  that  distinction  upon  another,  and,  I  may 
say,  an  unworthier  and  unfitter  man  than  I.  And, 
oddly  enough,  the  non-discriminating  multitude 
were  not  cheering  for  me;  the  artillery  was  not  in 
action  to  celebrate  me;  the  band  was  not  playing 
to  do  me  honor;  therefore  why  should  I  ride  in  the 
midst  of  a  procession  that  knows  me  not?  Why 
should  I  enthrone  me  in  an  open  barouche — a 
little  faded  and  possibly  not  quite  secure  as  to 
its  springs,  but  still  a  barouche — with  four 
white  horses  to  draw  it,  and  draped  with  silken 
flags,  both  barouche  and  steeds?  Since  these 
things  were  not  for  me,  I  flew  to  your  side  to 


476  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

dissemble  my  spleen  under  the  licensed  prattle 
of  a  cousin.'* 

"Then  who  is  with  him?" 

"The  population  of  this  portion  of  our  State,  I 
take  it." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  said  the  judge,  leaning  back 
to  speak  to  Helen.  "Keating  and  Smith  and  your 
father  are  to  ride  in  the  carriage  with  him.  You 
needn't  be  afraid  of  any  of  them  letting  him  know 
that  H.  Fisbee  is  a  lady.  Everybody  understands 
about  that;  of  course  they  know  it's  to  be  left  to 
you  to  break  it  to  him  how  well  a  girl  has  run  his 
paper."  The  old  gentleman  chuckled,  and  looked 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  at  his  daughter,  whose 
expression  was  inscrutable. 

"I!"  cried  Helen.  "I  teU  him!  No  one  must 
tell  him.  He  need  never  know  it." 

Briscoe  reached  back  and  patted  her  cheek. 
"How  long  do  you  suppose  he  will  be  here  in  Platt- 
ville  without  it's  leaking  out?" 

"But  they  kept  guard  over  him  for  months  and 
nobody  told  him." 

"Ah,"  said  Briscoe,  "but  this  is  different." 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  exclaimed.  "It  must  be  kept 
from  him  somehow!" 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  477 

"He'll  know  it  by  to-morrow,  so  you'd  better 
tell  him  this  evening." 

"This  evening?" 

"Yes.     You'll  have  a  good  chance." 

"I  will?" 

"He's  coming  to  supper  with  us.  He  and  your 
father,  of  course,  and  Keating  and  Bence  and  Bos- 
well  and  Smith  and  Tom  Martin  and  Lige.  We're 
going  to  have  a  big  time,  with  you  and  Minnie  to 
do  the  honors;  and  we're  all  coming  into  town 
afterwards  for  the  fireworks;  I'll  let  him  drive  you 
in  the  phaeton.  You'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  talk 
it  over  with  him  and  tell  him  all  about  it." 

Helen  gave  a  little  gasp.  "Never!"  she  cried. 
"Never!" 

The  buckboard  stopped  on  the  "Herald"  corner, 
and  here,  and  along  Main  Street,  the  line  of  vehicles 
which  had  followed  it  from  the  station  took  their 
places.  The  Square  was  almost  a  solid  mass  of 
bunting,  and  the  north  entrance  of  the  court-house 
had  been  decorated  with  streamers  and  flags,  so 
as  to  make  it  a  sort  of  stand.  Hither  the  crowd 
was  already  streaming,  and  hither  the  procession 
made  its  way.  At  intervals  the  cannon  boomed, 
and  Schofields'  Henry  was  winnowing  the  air  with 


478  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

his  bell;  nobody  had  a  better  time  that  day  than 
Schofields'  Henry,  except  old  \Yilkerson,  who  was 
with  the  procession. 

In  advance,  came  the  boys,  whooping  and  somer 
saulting,  and  behind  them,  rode  a  band  of  mounted 
men,  sitting  their  horses  like  cavalrymen,  led  by 
the  sheriff  and  his  deputy  and  Jim  Bardlock;  then 
followed  the  Harkless  Club  of  Amo,  led  by  Bos- 
well,  with  the  magnanimous  Hallo  way  himself 
marching  in  the  ranks;  and  at  sight  of  this  the 
people  shouted  like  madmen.  But  when  Helen's 
eye  fell  upon  his  fat,  rather  unhappy  face,  she  felt 
a  pang  of  pity  and  unreasoning  remorse,  which 
warned  her  that  he  who  looks  upon  politics  when 
it  is  red  must  steel  his  eyes  to  see  many  a  man 
with  the  heart-burn.  After  the  men  of  Amo,  came 
the  Harkless  Club  of  Gainesville,  Mr.  Bence  in  the 
van  with  the  step  of  a  grenadier.  There  followed 
next,  Mr.  Ephraim  Watts,  bearing  a  light  wand 
in  his  hand  and  leading  a  detachment  of  workers 
from  the  oil-fields  in  their  stained  blue  overalls 
and  blouses;  and,  after  them,  came  Mr.  Martin 
and  Mr.  Landis  at  the  head  of  an  organization 
recognized  in  the  "Order  of  Procession,"  printed  in 
the  "Herald,"  as  the  Business  Men  of  Plattville. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  479 

They  played  in  such  magnificent  time  that  every 
high-stepping  foot  in  all  the  line  came  down  with 
the  same  jubilant  plunk,  and  lifted  again  with  a 
unanimity  as  complete  as  that  of  the  last  vote  the 
convention  had  taken  that  day.  The  leaders  of 
the  procession  set  a  brisk  pace,  and  who  could  have 
set  any  other  kind  of  a  pace  when  on  parade  to  the 
strains  of  such  a  band,  playing  such  a  tune  as  "A 
New  Coon  in  Town,"  with  all  its  might  and  main? 
But  as  the  line  swung  into  the  Square,  there  came 
a  moment  when  the  tune  was  ended,  the  musicians 
paused  for  breath,  and  there  fell  comparative  quiet. 
Amongst  the  ranks  of  Business  Men  ambled  Mr. 
Wilkerson,  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  now 
he  could  be  heard  distinctly  enough  for  those  near 
to  him  to  distinguish  the  melody  with  which  it 
was  his  intention  to  favor  the  public: 

"Glory!     Glory!     Hallelujah! 
As  we  go  marching  on." 

The  words,  the  air,  that  husky  voice,  recalled  to 
the  men  of  Carlow  another  day  and  another  pro 
cession,  not  like  this  one.  And  the  song  Wilkerson 
was  singing  is  the  one  song  every  Northern-born 
American  knows  and  can  sing.  The  leader  of  the 
band  caught  the  sound,  signalled  to  his  men;  twenty 


480  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

instruments  rose  as  one  to  twenty  mouths;  the 
snare-drum  rattled,  the  big  drum  crashed,  the 
leader  lifted  his  baton  high  over  his  head,  and 
music  burst  from  twenty  brazen  throats: 

"Glory!     Glory!     Hallelujah!" 

Instantaneously,  the  whole  procession  began  to 
sing  the  refrain,  and  the  people  in  the  street,  and 
those  in  the  wagons  and  carriages,  and  those  lean 
ing  from  the  windows  joined  with  one  accord,  the 
ringing  bells  caught  the  time  of  the  song,  and  the 
upper  air  reverberated  in  the  rhythm. 

The  Harkless  Club  of  Carlow  wheeled  into  Main 
Street,  two  hundred  strong,  with  their  banners  and 
transparencies.  Lige  \Villetts  rode  at  their  head, 
and  behind  him  strode  young  William  Todd  and 
Parker  and  Ross  Schofield  and  Homer  Tibbs  and 
Hartley  Bowlder,  and  even  Bud  Tipworthy  held  a 
place  in  the  ranks  through  his  connection  with  the 
"Herald."  They  were  all  singing. 

And,  behind  them,  Helen  saw  the  flag-covered 
barouche  and  her  father,  and  beside  him  sat  John 
Harkless  with  his  head  bared. 

She  glanced  at  Briscoe;  he  was  standing  on  the 
front  seat  with  Minnie  beside  him,  and  both  were 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  481 

singing.  Meredith  had  climbed  upon  the  back  seat 
and  was  nervously  fumbling  at  a  cigarette. 

"Sing,  Tom!"  the  girl  cried  to  him  excitedly. 

"I  should  be  ashamed  not  to,"  he  answered;  and 
dropped  the  cigarette  and  began  to  sing  "John 
Brown's  Body"  with  all  his  strength.  With  that 
she  seized  his  hand,  sprang  up  beside  him,  and  over 
the  swelling  chorus  her  full  soprano  rose,  lifted 
with  all  the  power  in  her. 

The  barouche  rolled  into  the  Square,  and,  as  it 
passed,  Harkless  turned,  and  bent  a  sudden  gaze 
upon  the  group  in  the  buckboard;  but  the  western 
sun  was  in  his  eyes,  and  he  only  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  vague,  bright  shape  and  a  dazzle  of  gold,  and 
he  was  borne  along  and  out  of  view,  down  the 
singing  street. 

"Glory!  Glory!  Hallelujah! 
Glory!  Glory!  Hallelujah! 
Glory!  Glory!  Hallelujah! 

As  we  go  marching  on!" 

The  barouche  stopped  in  front  of  the  court 
house,  and  he  passed  up  a  lane  they  made  for  him 
to  the  steps.  When  he  turned  to  them  to  speak, 
they  began  to  cheer  again,  and  he  had  to  wait  for 
them  to  quiet  down. 


482  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"We  can't  hear  him  from  over  here,"  said  Bris- 
coe,  "we're  too  far  off.  Mr.  Meredith,  suppose 
you  take  the  ladies  closer  in,  and  I'll  stay  with  the 
horses.  You  want  to  hear  his  speech." 

"He  is  a  great  man,  isn't  he?"  Meredith  said  to 
Helen,  gravely,  as  he  handed  her  out  of  the  buck- 
board.  "I've  been  trying  to  realize  for  the  last 
few  minutes,  that  he  is  the  same  old  fellow  I've 
been  treating  so  familiarly  all  day  long." 

"Yes,  he  is  a  great  man,"  she  answered.  "This 
is  only  the  beginning." 

"That's  true,"  said  Briscoe,  who  had  overheard 
her.  "He'll  go  pretty  far.  A  man  that  people  know 
is  steady  and  strong  and  level-headed  can  get  what 
ever  he  wants,  because  a  public  man  can  get  any 
thing,  if  people  know  he's  safe  and  honest  and  they 
can  rely  on  him  for  sense.  It  sounds  like  a  simple 
matter;  but  only  three  or  four  public  men  in  the 
country  have  convinced  us  that  they  are  like  that. 
Hurry  along,  young  people." 

Crossing  the  street,  they  met  Miss  Tibbs;  she 
was  wiping  her  streaming  eyes  with  the  back  of 
her  left  hand  and  still  mechanically  waving  her 
handkerchief  with  her  right.  "Isn't  it  beautiful?" 
she  said,  not  ceasing  to  flutter,  unconsciously,  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  483 

little  square  of  cambric.  "There  was  such  a  throng 
that  I  grew  faint  and  had  to  come  away.  I  don't 
mind  your  seeing  me  crying.  Pretty  near  every 
body  cried  when  he  walked  up  to  the  steps  and 
we  saw  that  he  was  lame." 

Standing  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  they 
could  hear  the  mellow  ring  of  Harkless's  voice,  but 
only  fragments  of  the  speech,  for  it  was  rather 
halting,  and  was  not  altogether  clear  in  either 
rhetoric  or  delivery;  and  Mr.  Bence  could  have 
been  a  good  deal  longer  in  saying  what  he  had  to 
say,  and  a  thousand  times  more  oratorical.  Never 
theless,  there  was  not  a  man  or  woman  present 
who  did  not  declare  that  it  was  the  greatest  speech 
ever  heard  in  Plattville;  and  they  really  thought 
so — to  such  lengths  are  loyalty  and  friendship  some 
times  carried  in  Carlo w  and  Amo  and  Gaines. 

He  looked  down  upon  the  attentive,  earnest  faces 
and  into  the  kindly  eyes  of  the  Hoosier  country 
people,  and,  as  he  spoke,  the  thought  kept  recurring 
to  him  that  this  was  the  place  he  had  dreaded  to 
come  back  to;  that  these  were  the  people  he  had 
wished  to  leave — these,  who  gave  him  everything 
they  had  to  give — and  this  made  it  difficult  to  keep 
his  tones  steady  and  his  throat  clear. 


484  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Helen  stood  so  far  from  the  steps  (nor  could  she 
be  induced  to  penetrate  further,  though  they  would 
have  made  way  for  her)  that  only  fragments 
reached  her,  but  what  she  heard  she  remembered: 

"I  have  come  home  .  .  .  Ordinarily  a  man  needs 
to  fall  sick  by  the  wayside  or  to  be  set  upon  by 
thieves,  in  order  to  realize  that  nine-tenths  of  the 
world  is  Samaritan,  and  the  other  tenth  only  too 
busy  or  too  ignorant  to  be.  Down  here  he  realizes 
it  with  no  necessity  of  illness  or  wounds  to  bring 
it  out;  and  if  he  does  get  hurt,  you  send  him  to 
Congress.  .  .  .  There  will  be  no  other  in  Washing 
ton  so  proud  of  what  he  stands  for  as  I  shall  be. 
To  represent  you  is  to  stand  for  realities — fearless 
ness,  honor,  kindness.  .  .  .  We  are  people  who  take 
what  comes  to  us,  and  it  comes  bountifully;  wre 
are  rich — oh,  we  are  all  Americans  here!  .  .  .  This 
is  the  place  for  a  man  who  likes  to  live  where  people 
are  kind  to  each  other,  and  where  they  have  the 
old-fashioned  way  of  saying  'Home.'  Other  places, 
they  don't  seem  to  get  so  much  into  it  as  we  do. 
And  to  come  home  as  I  have  to-day.  ...  I  have 
come  home.  ..." 

Every  one  meant  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and, 
when  the  speech  was  over,  those  nearest  swooped 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  485 

upon  him,  cheering  and  waving,  and  grasping  at 
his  hand.  Then  a  line  was  formed,  and  they  began 
to  defile  by  him,  as  he  stood  on  the  steps,  and 
one  by  one  they  came  up,  and  gave  him  hearty 
greetings,  and  passed  on  through  the  court-house 
and  out  at  the  south  door.  Tom  Meredith  and 
Minnie  Briscoe  came  amongst  the  others,  and  Tom 
said  only,  "Good  old  boy,"  as  he  squeezed  his 
friend's  hand;  and  then,  as  he  went  down  the  hall, 
wiping  his  glasses,  he  asked  Minnie  if  she  believed 
the  young  man  on  the  steps  had  risen  from  a  sick 
bed  that  morning. 

It  was  five-o'clock  when  Harkless  climbed  the 
stairs  to  the  "Herald"  office,  and  his  right  arm  and 
hand  were  aching  and  limp.  Below  him,  as  he 
reached  the  landing,  he  could  see  boys  selling 
extras  containing  his  speech  (taken  by  the  new 
reporter),  and  long  accounts  of  the  convention, 
of  the  nominee's  career,  and  the  celebration  of  his 
home-coming.  The  sales  were  rapid;  for  no  one 
could  resist  the  opportunity  to  read  in  print  descrip 
tions  of  what  his  eyes  had  beheld  and  his  ears  had 
heard  that  day. 

Ross  Schofield  was  the  only  person  in  the  edito 
rial  room,  and  there  was  nothing  in  his  appearance 


486  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

which  should  cause  a  man  to  start  and  fall  back 
from  the  doorway;  but  that  was  what  Harkless  did. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mr.  Harkless?"  cried  Ross, 
hurrying  forward,  fearing  that  the  other  had  been 
suddenly  reseized  by  illness. 

"What  are  those?"  asked  Harkless,  with  a  gesture 
of  his  hand  which  seemed  to  include  the  entire 
room. 

"Those!"  repeated  Ross,  staring  blankly. 

"Those  rosettes — these  streamers — that  stove 
pipe — all  this  blufe  ribbon." 

Ross  turned  pale.  "Ribbon?"  he  said,  inquir 
ingly.  "Ribbon?"  He  seemed  unable  to  perceive 
the  decorations  referred  to. 

"Yes,"  answered  John;  "these  rosettes  on  the 
chairs,  that  band,  and — 

"Oh!"  Ross  exclaimed.  "That?"  He  fingered 
the  band  on  the  stovepipe  as  if  he  saw  it  for  the 
first  time.  "Yes;  I  see." 

"But  what  are  they  for?"  asked  Harkless,  touch 
ing  one  of  the  streamers  curiously. 

"Why — it's — it's  likely  meant  for  decorations." 

John  picked  up  the  ink-well,  staring  in  complete 
amazement  at  the  hard  knot  of  ribbon  with  which 
it  was  garnished. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  487 

"They  seem  to  have  been  here  some  time." 

"They  have;  I  reckon  they're  almost  due  to  be 
called  in.  They've  be'n  up  ever  sence — sence " 

"Who  put  them  up,  Ross?" 

"We  did." 

"What  for?" 

Ross  was  visibly  embarrassed.  "Why — fer — fer 
the  other  editor." 

"For  Mr.  Fisbee?" 

"Land,  no!  You  don't  suppose  we'd  go  to  work 
and  bother  to  brisken  things  up  fer  that  old  gen 
tleman,  do  you?" 

"I  meant  young  Mr.  Fisbee — he  is  the  other 
editor,  isn't  he?" 

"Oh!"  said  Ross,  coughing.  "Young  Mr.  Fisbee? 
Yes;  we  put  'em  up  fer  him." 

"You  did!     Did  he  appreciate  them?" 

"Well — he  seemed  to — kind  of  like  'em." 

"Where  is  he  now?     I  came  here  to  find  him." 

"He's  gone." 

"Gone?     Hasn't  he  been  here  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes;  some  'the  time.  Come  in  and  stayed 
durin'  the  leevy  you  was  holdin',  and  saw  the 
extra  off  all  right." 

"When  will  he  be  back?" 


488  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"Sence  it's  be'n  a  daily  he  gits  here  by  eight, 
after  supper,  but  don't  stay  very  late;  the  new 
man  and  old  Mr.  Fisbee  and  Parker  look  after 
whatever  comes  in  late,  unless  it's  something 
special.  He'll  likely  be  here  by  half-past  eight  at 
the  farthest  off." 

"I  can't  wait  till  then."  John  took  a  quick  turn 
about  the  room.  "I've  been  wanting  to  see  him 
every  minute  since  I  got  in,"  he  said  impatiently, 
"and  he  hasn't  been  near  me.  Nobody  could  even 
point  him  out  to  me.  Where  has  he  gone?  I  want 
to  see  him  now" 

"Want  to  discharge  him  again?"  said  a  voice 
from  the  door,  and  turning,  they  saw  that  Mr. 
Martin  stood  there  observing  them. 

"No,"  said  Harkless;  "I  want  to  give  him  the 
'Herald.'  Do  you  know  where  he  is?" 

Mr.  Martin  stroked  his  beard  deliberately.  "The 
person  you  speak  of  hadn't  ort  to  be  very  hard  to 
find — in  Carlow.  The  committee  was  reckless 
enough  to  hire  that  carriage  of  yours  by  the  day, 
and  Keating  and  Warren  Smith  are  setting  in  it 
up  at  the  corner,  with  their  feet  on  the  cushions 
to  show  they're  used  to  ridin'  around  with  four 
white  horses  every  day  in  the  week.  It's  waitin' 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  489 

till  you're  ready  to  go  out  to  Briscoe's.  It's  an 
hour  before  supper  time,  and  you  can  talk  to  young 
Fisbee  all  you  want.  He's  out  there." 

As  they  drove  along  the  pike,  Harkless's  three 
companions  kept  up  a  conversation  sprightly  be 
yond  the  mere  exhilaration  of  the  victorious;  but 
John  sat  almost  silent,  and,  in  spite  of  their  liveli 
ness,  the  others  eyed  him  a  little  anxiously  now 
and  then,  knowing  that  he  had  been  living  on 
excitement  through  a  physically  exhausting  day,  and 
they  were  fearful  lest  his  nerves  react  and  bring 
him  to  a  breakdown.  But  the  healthy  flush  of  his 
cheek  was  reassuring;  he  looked  steady  and  strong, 
and  they  were  pleased  to  believe  that  the  stirring-up 
was  what  he  needed. 

It  had  been  a  strange  and  beautiful  day  to  him, 
begun  in  anger,  but  the  sun  was  not  to  go  down 
upon  his  wrath;  for  his  choleric  intention  had  al 
most  vanished  on  his  homeward  way,  and  the  first 
words  Smith  had  spoken  had  lifted  the  veil  of 
young  Fisbee's  duplicity,  had  shown  him  with  what 
fine  intelligence  and  supreme  delicacy  and  sympathy 
young  Fisbee  had  worked  for  him,  had  understood 
him,  and  had  made  him.  If  the  open  assault  on 
McCune  had  been  pressed,  and  the  damnatory  evi- 


490  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

dence  published  in  Harkless's  own  paper,  while 
Harkless  himself  was  a  candidate  and  rival,  John 
would  have  felt  dishonored.  The  McCune  papers 
could  have  been  used  for  Halloway's  benefit,  but 
not  for  his  own;  he  would  not  ride  to  success  on 
another  man's  ruin;  and  young  Fisbee  had  under 
stood  and  had  saved  him.  It  was  a  point  of  honor 
that  many  would  have  held  finicky  and  incon 
sistent,  but  one  which  young  Fisbee  had  compre 
hended  was  vital  to  Harkless. 

And  this  was  the  man  he  had  discharged  like  a 
dishonest  servant;  the  man  who  had  thrown  what 
was  (in  Carlow's  eyes)  riches  into  his  lap;  the  man 
who  had  made  his  paper,  and  who  had  made  him, 
and  saved  him.  Harkless  wanted  to  see  young 
Fisbee  as  he  longed  to  see  only  one  other  person 
in  the  world.  Two  singular  things  had  happened 
that  day  which  made  his  craving  to  see  Helen 
almost  unbearable — just  to  rest  his  eyes  upon  her 
for  a  little  while,  he  could  ask  no  more.  And  as 
they  passed  along  that  well-remembered  road,  every 
tree,  every  leaf  by  the  wayside,  it  seemed,  spoke 
to  him  and  called  upon  the  dear  memory  of  his 
two  walks  with  her — into  town  and  out  of  town, 
on  show-day.  He  wondered  if  his  heart  was  to 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  491 

project  a  wraith  of  her  before  him  whenever  he 
was  deeply  moved,  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  For 
twice  to-day  he  had  seen  her  whom  he  knew  to  be 
so  far  away.  She  had  gone  back  to  her  friends  in 
the  north,  Tom  had  said.  Twice  that  afternoon 
he  had  been  momentarily,  but  vividly,  conscious 
of  her  as  a  living  presence.  As  he  descended  from 
the  car  at  the  station,  his  eyes,  wandering  out  over 
the  tumultuous  crowd,  had  caught  and  held  a 
picture  for  a  second — a  graceful  arm  upraised,  and 
a  gloved  hand  pressed  against  a  blushing  cheek 
under  a  hat  such  as  is  not  worn  in  Carlow;  a  little 
figure  poised  apparently  in  air,  full-length  above 
the  crowd  about  her;  so,  for  the  merest  flick  of 
time  he  had  seen  her,  and  then,  to  his  straining 
eyes,  it  was  as  though  she  were  not.  She  had 
vanished.  And  again,  as  his  carriage  reached  the 
Square,  a  feeling  had  come  to  him  that  she  was 
near  him;  that  she  was  looking  at  him;  that  he 
should  see  her  when  the  carriage  turned;  and  in 
the  same  instant,  above  the  singing  of  a  multitude, 
he  heard  her  voice  as  if  there  had  been  no  other, 
and  once  more  his  dazzled  eyes  beheld  her  for  a 
second;  she  was  singing,  and  as  she  sang  she  leaned 
toward  him  from  on  high  with  the  most  ineffable 


492  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

look  of  tenderness  and  pride  and  affection  he  had 
ever  seen  on  a  woman's  face ;  such  a  look,  he  thought, 
as  she  would  wear  if  she  came  to  love  some  archangel 
(her  love  should  be  no  less)  with  all  of  her  heart 
and  soul  and  strength.  And  so  he  knew  he  had 
seen  a  vision.  But  it  was  a  cruel  one  to  visit  a 
man  who  loved  her.  He  had  summoned  his  philos 
ophy  and  his  courage  in  his  interview  with  himself 
on  the  way  to  Carlo w,  and  they  had  answered; 
but  nothing  could  answer  if  his  eyes  were  to  play 
him  tricks  and  bring  her  visibly  before  him,  and 
with  such  an  expression  as  he  had  seen  upon  her 
face.  It  was  too  real.  It  made  his  eyes  yearn  for 
the  sight  of  her  with  an  ache  that  was  physical. 
And  even  at  that  moment,  he  saw,  far  ahead  of 
them  on  the  road,  two  figures  standing  in  front  of 
the  brick  house.  One  was  unmistakable  at  any  dis 
tance.  It  was  that  of  old  Fisbee;  and  the  other  was 
a  girl's:  a  light,  small  figure  without  a  hat,  and  the 
low,  western  sun  dwelt  on  a  head  that  shone  with 
gold.  Harkless  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes  with  a 
pain  that  was  like  the  taste  of  hemlock  in  nectar. 

"Sun  in  your  eyes?"  asked  Keating,  lifting  his 
hat,  so  as  to  shield  the  other's  face. 

"Yes." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  493 

When  he  looked  again,  both  figures  were  gone. 
He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  think  of  the 
only  other  person  who  could  absorb  his  attention, 
at  least  for  a  time;  very  soon  he  would  stand  face  to 
face  with  the  six  feet  of  brawn  and  intelligence  and 
manhood  that  was  young  Fisbee. 

"You  are  sure  he  is  there?"  he  asked  Tom 
Martin. 

"Yes,"  answered  Martin,  with  no  need  to  inquire 
whom  the  editor  meant.  "I  reckon,"  he  continued, 
solemnly,  peering  at  the  other  from  under  his  rusty 
hat-brim,  "I  reckon  when  you  see  him,  maybe  you'll 
want  to  put  a  kind  of  codicil  to  that  deed  to  the 
'Herald.'  " 

"How's  that,  Martin?" 

"Why,  I  guess  maybe  you'll — well,  wait  till  you 
see  him." 

"I  don't  want  to  wait  much  longer,  when  I 
remember  what  I  owe  him  and  how  I  have  used 
him,  and  that  I  have  been  here  nearly  three  hours 
without  seeing  him." 

As  they  neared  the  brick  house  Harkless  made 
out,  through  the  trees,  a  retreative  flutter  of  skirts 
on  the  porch,  and  the  thought  crossed  his  mind  that 
Minnie  had  flown  indoors  to  give  some  final  direc- 


494  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

tions  toward  the  preparation  of  the  banquet;  but 
when  the  barouche  halted  at  the  gate,  he  was 
surprised  to  see  her  waving  to  him  from  the  steps, 
while  Tom  Meredith  and  Mr.  Bence  and  Mr.  Bos- 
well  formed  a  little  court  around  her.  Lige  Willetts 
rode  up  on  horse  back  at  the  same  moment,  and  the 
judge  was  waiting  in  front  of  the  gate.  Harkless 
stepped  out  of  the  barouche  and  took  his  hand. 

"I  was  told  young  Fisbee  was  here." 

"Young  Fisbee  is  here,"  said  the  judge. 

"Where,  please,  Briscoe?" 

"Want  to  see  him  right  off?" 

"I  do,  very  much." 

"You'll  withdraw  his  discharge,  I  expect,  now?" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "I  want  to  make 
him  a  present  of  the  'Herald,'  if  he'll  take  it."  He 
turned  to  Meredith,  who  had  come  to  the  gate. 
"Tom,  where  is  he?" 

Meredith  put  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder, 
and  answered:  "I  don't  know.  God  bless  you,  old 
fellow!" 

"The  truth  is,"  said  the  judge,  as  they  entered  the 
gate,  "that  when  you  drove  up,  young  Fisbee  ran 
into  the  house.  Minnie —  He  turned,  but  his 
daughter  had  disappeared;  however,  she  came  to  the 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  495 

door,  a  moment  later,  and  shook  her  head  mysteri 
ously  at  her  father. 

"Not  in  the  house,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Fisbee  came  around  the  corner  of  the  porch 
and  went  toward  Harkless.  "Fisbee,"  cried  the 
latter,  "where  is  your  nephew?" 

The  old  man  took  his  hand  in  both  his  own,  and 
looked  him  between  the  eyes,  and  thus  stood,  while 
there  was  a  long  pause,  the  others  watching  them. 

"You  must  not  say  that  I  told  you,"  he  said  at 
last.  "Go  into  the  garden." 

But  when  Harkless's  step  crunched  the  garden 
path  there  was  no  one  there.  Asters  were  blooming 
in  beds  between  the  green  rose-bushes,  and  their 
many-fingered  hands  were  flung  open  in  wide 
surprise  that  he  should  expect  to  find  young  Fisbee 
there.  It  was  just  before  sunset.  Birds  were 
gossiping  in  the  sycamores  on  the  bank.  At  the 
foot  of  the  garden,  near  the  creek,  there  were  some 
tall  hydrangea  bushes,  flower-laden,  and,  beyond 
them,  one  broad  shaft  of  the  sun  smote  the  creek 
bends  for  a  mile  in  that  flat  land,  and  crossed 
the  garden  like  a  bright,  taut-drawn  veil.  Hark- 
less  passed  the  bushes  and  stepped  out  into 


496  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

this  gold  brilliance.  Then  he  uttered  a  cry  and 
stopped. 

Helen  was  standing  beside  the  hydrangeas,  with 
both  hands  against  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground.  She  had  run  away  as  far  as  she 
could  run;  there  were  high  fences  extending  down 
to  the  creek  on  each  side,  and  the  water  was  beyond. 

"You!"  he  said.     "You— you!" 

She  did  not  lift  her  eyes,  but  began  to  move  away 
from  him  with  little  backward  steps.  When  she 
reached  the  bench  on  the  bank,  she  spoke  with  a 
quick  intake  of  breath  and  in  a  voice  he  scarcely 
heard.  It  was  the  merest  whisper,  and  her  words 
came  so  slowly  that  sometimes  minutes  separated 
them. 

"Can  you — will  you  keep  me — on  the  'Herald'?" 

"Keep  you- 

"Will  you— let  me— help?" 

He  came  near  her.  "I  don't  understand.  Is  it 
you — you — who  are  here  again?" 

"Have  you — forgiven  me?  You  know  now  why 
I  wouldn't — resign?  You  forgive  my — that  tele 
gram?" 

"What  telegram?" 

"That  one  that  came  to  you — this  morning." 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  497 

"Your  telegram?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  send  me  one?" 

"Yes." 

"It  did  not  come  to  me." 

"Yes— it  did." 

"But  there—     What  was  it  about?" 

"It  was  signed,"  she  said,  "it  was  signed — " 
She  paused  and  turned  half  way,  not  lifting  the 
downcast  lashes;  her  hand,  laid  upon  the  arm  of  the 
bench,  was  shaking;  she  put  it  behind  her.  Then 
her  eyes  were  lifted  a  little,  and,  though  they  did 
not  meet  his,  he  saw  them,  and  a  strange,  frightened 
glory  leaped  in  his  heart.  Her  voice  fell  still  lower 
and  two  heavy  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  "It 
was  signed,"  she  whispered,  "it  was  signed — 'H. 
Fisbee.'  " 

He  began  to  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  There 
was  a  long  silence.  She  had  turned  quite  away 
from  him.  When  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  as  low  as 
hers,  and  he  spoke  as  slowly  as  she  had. 

"You  mean — then — it  was — you?" 

"Yes." 

"You!" 

"Yes." 


498  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

"And  you  have  been  here  all  the  time?"    4 

"All — all  except  the  week  you  were — hurt,  and 
that — that  one  evening." 

The  bright  veil  which  wrapped  them  was  drawn 
away,  and  they  stood  in  the  silent,  gathering  dusk. 

He  tried  to  loosen  his  neck-band;  it  seemed  to  be 
choking  him.  "I — I  can't — I  don't  comprehend  it. 
I  am  trying  to  realize  what  it — 

"It  means  nothing,"  she  answered. 

"There  was  an  editorial,  yesterday,"  he  said,  "an 
editorial  that  I  thought  was  about  Rodney  McCune. 
Did  you  write  it?" 

"Yes." 

"It  was  about — me — wasn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"It  said — it  said — that  I  had  won  the  love  of 
every  person  in  Carlo w  County." 

Suddenly  she  found  her  voice.  "Do  not  misun 
derstand  me,"  she  said  rapidly.  "I  have  done  the 
little  that  I  have  done  out  of  gratitude."  She  faced 
him  now,  but  without  meeting  his  eyes.  "I  told 
you,  remember,  that  you  would  understand  some 
day  what  I  meant  by  that,  and  the  day  has  come. 
I  owed  you  more  gratitude  than  a  woman  ever 
owed  a  man  before,  I  think,  and  I  would  have  died 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  499 

to  pay  a  part  of  it.  I  set  every  gossip's  tongue  in 
Rouen  clacking  at  the  very  start,  in  the  merest 
amateurish  preparation  for  the  work  Mr.  Macauley 
gave  me.  That  was  nothing.  And  the  rest  has 
been  the  happiest  time  in  my  life.  I  have  only 
pleased  myself,  after  all!" 

"What  gratitude  did  you  owe  me?" 

"What  gratitude?  For  what  you  did  for  my 
father." 

"I  have  only  seen  your  father  once  in  my  life — 
at  your  table  at  the  dance  supper,  that  night." 

"Listen.  My  father  is  a  gentle  old  man  with 
white  hair  and  kind  eyes.  You  saw  my  uncle,  that 
night;  he  has  been  as  good  to  me  as  a  father,  since 
I  was  seven  years  old,  and  he  gave  me  his  name  by 
law  and  I  lived  with  him.  My  father  came  to  see 
me  once  a  year;  I  never  came  to  see  him.  He 
always  told  me  everything  was  well  with  him;  that 
his  life  was  happy.  Once  he  lost  the  little  he  had 
left  to  him  in  the  world,  his  only  way  of  making  his 
living.  He  had  no  friends;  he  was  hungry  and 
desperate,  and  he  wandered.  I  was  dancing  and 
going  about  wearing  jewels — only — I  did  not  know. 
All  the  time  the  brave  heart  wrote  me  happy  letters. 
I  should  have  known,  for  there  was  one  who  did, 


500  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

and  who  saved  him.  When  at  last  I  came  to  see 
my  father,  he  told  me.  He  had  written  of  his  idol 
before;  but  it  was  not  till  I  came  that  he  told  it  all 
to  me.  Do  you  know  what  I  felt?  While  his 
daughter  was  dancing  cotillions,  a  stranger  had 
taken  his  hand — and —  A  sob  rose  in  her  throat 
and  checked  her  utterance  for  a  moment;  but  she 
threw  up  her  head  and  met  his  eyes  proudly.  "Grati 
tude,  Mr.  Harkless!"  she  cried.  "I  am  James 
Fisbee's  daughter." 

He  fell  back  from  the  bench  with  a  sharp  exclama 
tion,  and  stared  at  her  through  the  gray  twilight. 
She  went  on  hurriedly,  again  not  looking  at  him: 

"When  you  showed  me  that  you  cared  for  me — 
when  you  told  me  that  you  did — I — do  you  think 
I  wanted  to  care  for  you?  I  wanted  to  do  something 
to  show  you  that  I  could  be  ashamed  of  my  vile 
neglect  of  him — something  to  show  you  his  daughter 
could  be  grateful.  If  I  had  loved  you,  what  I  did 
would  have  been  for  that — and  I  could  not  have 
done  it.  And  how  could  I  have  shown  my  grati 
tude  if  I  had  done  it  for  love?  And  it  has  been  such 
dear,  happy  work,  the  little  I  have  done,  that  it 
seems,  after  all,  that  I  have  done  it  for  love  of  myself. 
But — but  when  you  first  told  me —  She  broke  off 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  501 

with  a  strange,  fluttering,  half  inarticulate  little 
laugh  that  was  half  tears;  and  then  resumed  in 
another  tone:  "When  you  told  me  you  cared  that 
night — that  night  we  were  here — how  could  I  be 
sure?  It  had  been  only  two  days,  you  see,  and  even 
if  I  could  have  been  sure  of  myself,  why,  I  couldn't 
have  told  you.  Oh!  I  had  so  brazenly  thrown  myself 
at  your  head,  time  and  again,  those  two  days,  in 
my — my  worship  of  your  goodness  to  my  father  and 
my  excitement  in  recognizing  in  his  friend  the  hero 
of  my  girlhood,  that  you  had  every  right  to  think  I 
cared;  but  if — but  if  I  had — if  I  had — loved  you 
with  my  whole  soul,  I  could  not  have — why,  no 
woman  could  have — I  mean  the  sort  of  girl  I  am 
couldn't  have  admitted  it — must  have  denied  it. 
And  what  I  was  trying  to  do  for  you  when  we  met 
in  Rouen  was — was  courting  you.  You  surely  see 
I  couldn't  have  done  it  if  I  had  cared.  It  would 
have  been  brazen!  And  do  you  think  that  then  I 
could  have  answered — 'Yes' — even  if  I  wanted  to — 
even  if  I  had  been  sure  of  myself?  And  now — 
Her  voice  sank  again  to  a  whisper.  "And  now — 

From  the  meadows  across  the  creek,  and  over  the 
fields,  came  a  far  tinkling  of  farm-bells.  Three 
months  ago,  at  this  hour,  John  Harkless  had 


502  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

listened  to  that  sound,  and  its  great  lonesomeness 
had  touched  his  heart  like  a  cold  hand;  but  now,  as 
the  mists  were  rising  from  the  water  and  the  small 
stars  pierced  the  sky  one  by  one,  glinting  down 
through  the  dim,  immeasurable  blue  distances,  he 
found  no  loneliness  in  heaven  or  earth.  He  leaned 
forward  toward  her;  the  bench  was  between  them. 
The  last  light  was  gone;  evening  had  fallen. 

"And  now —  "  he  said. 

She  moved  backward  as  he  leaned  nearer. 

"You  promised  to  remember  on  the  day  you 
understood,"  she  answered,  a  little  huskily,  "that  it 
was  all  from  the  purest  gratitude." 

"And — and  there  is  nothing  else?" 

"If  there  were,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  grew  more 
and  more  unsteady,  "if  there  were,  can't  you  see 
that  what  I  have  done —  She  stopped,  and  then, 
suddenly,  "Ah,  it  would  have  been  brazen!" 

He  looked  up  at  the  little  stars  and  he  heard  the 
bells,  and  they  struck  into  his  heart  like  a  dirge. 
He  made  a  singular  gesture  of  abnegation,  and  then 
dropped  upon  the  bench  with  his  head  bowed 
between  his  hands. 

She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  bosom,  watching  him 
in  a  startled  fashion,  her  eyes  wide  and  her  lips 


THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA  503 

parted.  She  took  a  few  quick,  short  steps  toward 
the  garden,  still  watching  hin  over  her  shoulder. 

"You  mustn't  worry,"  he  said,  not  lifting  his 
bent  head,  "I  know  you're  sorry.  I'll  be  all  right 
in  a  minute." 

She  gave  a  hurried  glance  from  right  to  left  and 
from  left  to  right,  like  one  in  terror  seeking  a  way  of 
escape;  she  gathered  her  skirts  in  her  hand,  as  if  to 
run  into  the  garden;  but  suddenly  she  turned  and 
ran  to  him — ran  to  him  swiftly,  with  her  great  love 
shining  from  her  eyes.  She  sank  upon  her  knees 
beside  him.  She  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck 
and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  don't  you  see?"  she  whispered, 
"don't  you  see — don't  you  see?" 

When  they  heard  the  judge  calling  from  the 
orchard,  they  went  back  through  the  garden  toward 
the  house.  It  was  dark;  the  whitest  asters  were 
but  gray  splotches.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
orchard;  Briscoe  had  gone  indoors.  "Did  you 
know  you  are  to  drive  me  into  town  in  the  ohaeton 
for  the  fireworks?"  she  asked. 

"Fireworks?" 

"Yes;    the    Great    Harkless    has    come    home." 


604  THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA 

Even  in  the  darkness  he  could  see  the  look  the 
vision  had  given  him  when  the  barouche  turned 
into  the  Square.  She  smiled  upon  him  and  said, 
"All  afternoon  I  was  wishing  I  could  have  been 
your  mother." 

He  clasped  her  hand  more  tightly.  "This  won 
derful  world!"  he  cried.  "Yesterday  I  had  a 
doctor — a  doctor  to  cure  me  of  love-sickness!" 

They  went  on  a  little  way.  "We  must  hurry," 
she  said.  "I  am  sure  they  have  been  waiting  for 
us."  This  was  true;  they  had. 

From  the  dining-room  came  laughter  and  hearty 
voices,  and  the  windows  were  bright  with  the  light 
of  many  lamps.  By  and  by,  they  stood  just  outside 
the  patch  of  light  that  fell  from  one  of  the  windows. 

"Look,"  said  Helen.  "Aren't  they  good,  dear 
people?" 

"The  beautiful  people!"  he  answered. 

THE   END 


THE   COUNTRY   LIFE   PRESS 
GARDEN   CITY,  N.  Y. 


A     000  821  620     2 


Sill! 


